


Drop Dead Frederick

by EvilEd



Category: Drop Dead Fred (1991), The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Crack Crossover, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Fred's really not helping, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Vyv's depressed, car crashes, crack ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 56,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21702592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilEd/pseuds/EvilEd
Summary: Fred's finished up with Natalie Bunce and heading towards the end of his time as an imaginary friend, so it's time for one final charge.They're sending him back to Codrington road to sort out Dr. Basterd.
Relationships: Fred (Drop Dead Fred)/Other(s), Vyvyan Basterd/Drop Dead Fred, Vyvyan Basterd/Rick (Young Ones)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 28





	1. A Day in the Life of Dr. Basterd

**Author's Note:**

> Hehehehe. Hey guysss. I've uh...I've done a thing. It's...look I'm sorry okay. It's a goddamn angst train. Especially this first chapter. It'll get much nicer later but you're gonna have to work for it.

_ Rick? Get up off the bloody road you girly twat! Come on, you’re alright. Poof? Poof, don’t be stupid. This isn’t funny. Get up. Rick? Rick? Rick, come on you git! Get up! _

Vyvyan Basterd woke up with a start, a groan, a pathetic little whimper. Just a dream. Christ. Thank Christ. He rolled over and threw one arm across the other side of the bed, reaching for someone who wasn’t there. He opened one eye. The bed was cold.

Ah. So it wasn’t a dream after all.

Just a memory. 

He rolled back over towards the edge of the bed, reaching for one of the many half-empty pill bottles strewn across the bedside table. His hand found the anti-depressants, nearly finished. He took two. Didn’t do him much good. Nothing ever did.

“Morning, poof.” He muttered. A grim routine that hurt more than it helped, but he couldn’t seem to give it up. He ran a comb through his hair, spiked it, put on jeans and a t-shirt as well as his coat. Heavy military boots that certainly weren’t part of the approved uniform for clinic employees. His superiors had given up trying to reprimand him for his dress sense, though. Dr Basterd was not, after all, an easily reprimanded individual. 

It was half-past nine. He was already late. Probably pushed back his first few appointments. Oh well, fuck them. Bastards could wait. He stomped down the stairs and into the kitchen, kicking aside the rats, the flies and the filth. From on top of the fridge, SPG was still snoring inside his cage, buried under the hay and (at least for the moment) safely out of the way of Vyv’s line of fire. While he waited for the kettle to boil, Vyv busied himself by straightening the vast array of political pins on his lab coat. Old, most of them. Faded and worn. He wondered what Rick would have thought, if he could have seen him. Probably nothing very flattering. 

He had a song stuck in his head. Which one? Living Doll? No. No, it sounded like Bachelor Boy. Hmph. Typical. 

“Bachelor Boy.” Vyv grunted, “That’s me, poof. Till my dying bloody day.” 

The kettle boiled, hot water went into a filthy mug, and yesterday’s tea bag into the muck. No sugar. He never had any fucking sugar. Always seemed to drop off the shopping list.

In the old days of course, they’d  _ always _ had sugar. Had to, unless he, Mike and Neil wanted to sit through a violent string of whiny complaints from the people’s sodding poet. Rick had liked  _ at least _ eight sugars in his tea. Usually around ten or twelve. Vyvyan used to give him grief for it, sometimes asking if Rick just wanted to cut out the middleman and eat the white right out of the pot. And if he kissed Rick after morning tea time, all he could taste was warm, milky sugar. Hardly any  _ tea _ in it. But that was a bloody long time ago. Six years, give or take. Felt like longer. 

Vyv threw a carrot in SPG’s cage, finished his tea in one gulp and made a brief, half-hearted search for his car keys. They were back by the sofa, hidden under the cushions. Must’ve slipped down there when he was watching the telly. 

“Right, I’m off.” Vyv grunted. SPG continued to snore. He usually slept till noon, the lucky bastard. Vyv would’ve given anything to be able to do the same. 

He climbed into the battered old Anglia, his eyes drifting to the passenger seat out of habit - half expecting Rick to throw open the door and climb in. 

_ Stop it _ .

He couldn’t. He flicked on the radio instead.

_ “...In other news, Margaret Thatcher has been granted a life peerage as Baroness Thatcher of Kesteven-” _

“Oh bloody hell!” Vyv snapped. He glanced at the passenger seat again with a sigh, “I bet you’re spinning in your grave. _Baroness_ _Thatcher_. Dear oh dear, poof. What is the world coming to?” 

What would Rick have made of Thatcher’s resignation? It was a question that plagued Vyv on a semi-regular basis, followed closely by the question of what the poet’s reaction might have been to the destruction of the Berlin wall. If he’d been alive, they could have celebrated. Had a drink to the poor health of the much-hated dragon lady. Huddled in front of the TV to watch the wall come down. Instead Vyv had sat alone both times, caught up in what  _ would _ have been some of the proudest moments of Rick’s life, wishing with all his heart that  _ somehow _ , someone could bring the poet back. Just for a little while. Just to see. It didn’t feel right celebrating without him. 

Traffic was bloody mental, made Vyvyan later still. And the carpark was a bloody nightmare - he’d have to walk for miles. But the day went on as normal, the way it always did. A dreary journey across blue linoleum, strolling up and down the pale blue floors of A&E.

Name? Age? What seems to be the problem? That’ll need stitches. Looks like a concussion. We’ll keep you in overnight. Nasty break - I don’t like the look of it. Better get an X-ray. 

A brief stop for a tea break, then back on with the show. All diagnoses present and correct, delivered in a stilted monotone. No chance of a bedside manner. Dr Basterd was good at his job. No one could say he wasn’t. But he could have been exceptional. Could have been a favourite, if the wild personality that shone through in his clothes had even once come through in his voice or his mannerisms. If he wasn’t such a robot. Such a depressing, empty shell. 

_ Where’s your sense of humour, Vyv? _

A common line of questioning when he went for tea in the break room. Looked on with a deadpan expression while the other doctors, nurses and orderlies had a laugh and mucked about. 

_ “Haven’t bloody got one. I’m here to do a job.” _

Lies, lies, lies. He’d had one once, hadn’t he? A bloody good one. A  _ sick _ one. One that used to make his mates howl with laughter, made Rick shoot milk and cornflakes out of his nose. Made Mike beam with pride. 

_ He’s only improvising, but Shakespeare coulda written the script!  _

He wasn’t sure he knew how to laugh anymore. Certainly couldn’t crack a joke. Could barely remember how to smile.

Shift finished late. Always finished late. Always ran overtime in A and bloody E. Rick would have hated that. Probably would have been calling at all hours.

_ “What time do you call this, young man?” _

Honestly, Rick must have been the only person on the face of the planet who checked up on him. Who gave half a toss. Mike and Neil tried their best, of course, but it wasn’t the same. Especially not since his two former flatmates had reluctantly moved out and on, leaving Vyv and his hamster to rot in the house on Codrington, checking in every so often, but never quite often enough. 

He got home somewhere around eight. Curry takeaway under one arm, bag of mixed veg under the other. SPG came out of his cage for the veg, grunting some half hearted murmur of appreciation as he dug through the droopy lettuce and wrinkled carrots. Rick would have done him a salad. He  _ spoiled  _ him. Vyv used to get on his case about it all the time. Rick never did understand  _ why _ the punk had wanted the hamster to make do with less. Never knew what it was like to be out on the streets, going days in between meals. But those survival skills had come in handy on that long ago summer break, hadn’t they? When they were all stranded in the gutter, trying to make end’s meet by robbing the fascist pig bank? Rick wouldn’t hear of it, of course. SPG was  _ their _ pet now. He deserved a proper dinner. A good bit of looking after. It was no bloody wonder Vyv was soon playing second fiddle in the eyes of his own sodding hamster. 

They ate in silence. Did most things in silence, really. What could they possibly have had to talk about?  _ Dear oh dear isn’t life shit and don’t we all miss Rick?  _ No bloody thank you. Vyv had cried in front of SPG far too many times already. And then of course, they were in bed by nine.  _ Nine _ !  _ Christ. _ Hardly very bloody anarchic. Vyv stripped down to his Y-fronts and crawled underneath Rick’s sheets, desperate for a scent that had long since faded. The smell of pimple cream and ink stains, cigarettes and cheap roll on deodorant. The smell of Rick. It wasn’t uncommon for SPG to spend the night in his bed. A small comfort, but Vyv appreciated it. There was something a bit nice about waking up to a warm little fuzzball asleep on his chest. Not the same as Rick, Christ knew. But it was  _ something _ . 

He put his hand on SPG’s fur, shut his eyes and sighed. Same again tomorrow. Same again the day after. And same and same again until the weekend rolled around, and Vyv was left with nothing to do but lie around the drawing room watching tapes of  _ the Good Life _ and flicking through Rick’s poetry journals. Maybe go up and visit the grave. Stop off at the pub for a drink with his mum. He was trapped, stuck in a rut. Caught somewhere between life and death. Because in spirit, he’d been buried with Rick, really. 

He was only living on in the physical sense; stuck going through the motions, waiting to die. Well, no. Waiting for his bloody  _ hamster _ to die, so he could top himself without the guilt. 

“Why did  _ you _ have to fucking well come back?” Vyv whispered, “Why couldn’t it have been him?”

“Aye, I’m not any happier about it than you are, laddy. Ay’d only jus’ kicked yer to the curb once an’ for all.”

“Hmph.” Vyv replied. A dry chuckle; no humour in it. Bloody typical, wasn’t it? They all survived the first house being bombed. Survived a trip back in time. He’d survived decapitations and amputations and even a bloody bus crash, and SPG had come back from the dead after being squashed between a lamp post and the radiator of his car. But Rick couldn’t survive what had happened?  _ Really _ ? 

“...I wish I’d gone instead.” Vyv muttered. It was a thought that must have crossed his mind at least a  _ hundred _ times a day. 

“You an’ me both, lad.” SPG yawned, “You an’ me both.” 


	2. Twee and Twid Take a Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! No Fred or Vyv in this chapter, but things are well underway. Hope you enjoy!

In the assignments and charges division of the Department for Imaginary Friends, the head of surveillance was finishing up his report. Tweedle had been monitoring potential, former and current charges since time immemorial. But it was no secret that  _ one particular _ charge was forever at the centre of his observations. The fly in the ointment, so to speak. The single bad apple in an otherwise perfect bunch.

From his desk in the corner of the division office, he looked up from his monitors and regarded his twin brother with a cautious smile. This was an issue of some delicacy, and would need to be approached carefully.

“Patient Zero’s off his meds.” Tweedle said. 

“What? Off the green pills?” Twiddle replied. From his desk on the other side of the office, he was busy signing off on the most recent round of new assignments. The paperwork would have to be at head office in an hour, and they were in serious danger of falling behind.

“It would appear so. It seems to interfere with his  _ other _ medications.” Tweedle straightened the carnation in the lapel of his checkered sports jacket before running a hand through smooth, neon yellow hair. Twiddle snorted.

“Oh, what a  _ shame _ .” He rolled his eyes and went back to his mountain of paperwork, “And what, pray tell,  _ other _ medications is he taking? Anti-sociopathic-murderer pills, I should hope.”

“Sleeping pills, antidepressants, anti-anxiety pills, and a number of heavy-duty painkillers.” Tweedle double-checked his notes, “Oh, and caffeine pills.” 

“Goodness. I hope you’re not planning on assigning him  _ another _ IF.”

“Well…” Tweedle smiled.

“Oh, no. Absolutely not! Do you  _ know _ how many imaginary friends we’ve lost to that...that  _ monster _ ?”

“One thousand, two hundred and seventy-two.  _ Yes _ , Twiddle. I am aware.”

“And you want us to send  _ another _ lamb to the slaughter?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it like  _ that _ . But I would very much like to cross the only blemish in our near spotless reputation  _ off _ the books, wouldn’t you? Head office has been nagging us about it ever since the first death!”

Twiddle shuddered, “Don’t talk to  _ me _ about the first death. How a three-year-old child managed to set an IF on fire is entirely beyond me. Those things aren’t supposed to happen, you know!”

“So we’re in agreement, then. Patient Zero needs to be resolved.”

“Not at the cost of another employee!” Twiddle sighed. He put the last of his paperwork back in the desk drawer to be dealt with at a later date. Lately, it seemed as though they were always one step behind, “Can we discuss this later? Fred’ll be here any minute! Have  _ you _ sorted out his next assignment? Because frankly, I haven’t found the time.”

“Ah, well. You see, that is  _ precisely _ why I bring up Patient Zero.” 

“...Oh no.” Twiddle stood up from his desk and began to pace frantically across the tiled floor. 

“Oh, yes.” Tweedle replied. His voice was calm and matter-of-fact. He would get Twiddle on side in the end - he always did. Some days just required a gentler touch than others.

“You want us to assign our  _ best employee _ to that...that... _ murderer _ ?”

“Well, he  _ is _ only one charge away from a full pardon.” Tweedle pointed out, “And he has been  _ very _ adamant about his refusal to retire.”

“So your plan is to send him on a suicide mission?!”

“Not at all. Patient Zero has suffered a tremendous loss. He’s inconsolable. Broken. Not at all himself.”

“Well, that’s all very tragic. However -”

“He lost his soul mate, Twiddle. You know how hard that is to come by. Not everyone even  _ gets _ a soul mate. And to lose one so soon after finding them, well…”

“Devastating. But-”

“You do know who his soulmate was, don’t you?”

“I dread to think!” Twiddle replied, “It hardly seems fair that deranged sociopaths should be allowed to have soul mates in the first place! Go on then, who was it? Some kind of horrendous, violent ax murderer, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“A mister Pratt.” Tweedle said. Twiddle wouldn’t be able to argue with that one. Twee had him now - hook, line and sinker. 

Twiddle’s face fell.

“You don’t mean  _ the _ Mr Pratt?” Twiddle asked, as he scrambled around on the floor trying to pick his face back up again. It was not an uncommon occurrence in the DIF. One of the perils of a job where fun was the aim of the game, and everything could be taken literally.

“The very same.” Twee replied. 

“...You’ve been planning this from the start, haven’t you?”

“Of course! All of Fred’s training and experience - particularly that...unpleasantness with Miss Elizabeth Cronin - has led up to this final charge. But he will certainly be rewarded for his efforts, I assure you.”

“If he survives!” Twiddle lamented, “And in all our years of assigning IF’s to Patient Zero, only  _ one _ has come back alive. And why don’t you ask Hang-Yourself-Harriet what she  _ thought  _ of that little experience? I believe she’s  _ still _ bawling her eyes out in the break room!”

“That was an unfortunate incident, I grant you. But no one could have foreseen that a five-year-old would have the ability to perform a vivisection on a fully grown,  _ imaginary _ woman.”

“We could have. After what he did to Go to Hell Herman the week before, and to the Dangerous Brothers only a month prior, we  _ should  _ have!”

“Hang-Yourself-Harriet is no Drop Dead Fred. Neither was Go to Hell Herman, and don't get me _started_ on the Dangerous Brothers! Fred's the best in the business, Twid! His record’s impeccable!”

“Then let’s keep it that way!”

“Twiddle,  _ please _ . If Frederick Flashheart Pratt can’t help his own soul mate, no-one can.”

Twiddle sighed. He was up against the wall with this one, and he knew it.

“Fine. Fine! If you’re so  _ adamant _ , I’ll send for him immediately!”

“You do that.” Tweedle replied, “And for heaven’s sake, don’t let him talk to Harriet!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo...Vyv was a bit of a trouble maker growing up. Hardly surprising, really. But I wouldn't worry too much. It's going to take more than a maniacal depressed punk to stop Drop Dead Fred!


	3. Fred Gets a Charge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are great, as always. Thanks for all the support :))

As with all previous assignments, Fred’s knowledge of his next charge was limited at best. He had a name, an age, and a rough geographical location. Everything else was a mystery. Well,  _ almost _ everything. Twee and Twid  _ had _ , after all, issued him with a stern warning. Watch out for this one. He’s trouble. You wouldn’t be the first IF to write off Patient Zero as a giant, astronomical failure.

But if the stories were true, he’d be lucky if he wrote Patient Zero off  _ and _ lived to tell the tale. 

But Fred wasn’t worried. Not hardly at all. Honestly, really, how  _ bad _ could it be, anyway? After surviving the perils of the mega-bitch, Lizzie’s ridiculous ex-husband, and the painfully boring anecdotes and admonishments of Mickey fartpants, this Vyvyan Basterd bloke would surely be a piece of cake! He’d be easier to bring round than Natalie Bunce - and that really had been a non-event. 

So he teleported onto the cracked pavement of Codrington road and took inventory without much in the way of anxiety. Another day, another charge. Frankly, he was more interested in the implication that he was the greatest, most competent imaginary friend on the books. It was a fact he’d always known, of course, but it was nice to have it validated by his superiors once and a while. 

He ran a hand through his hair and checked his clothes over. Every new charge meant a  _ slight _ change to his overall appearance, but in the case of Basterd the alterations were minor. Red military boots. A bit more of a straight leg on his pants. Some kind of bizarre badge collection pinned to the lapels of his blazer. Not bad, not bad. He’d certainly had worse. 

Right, so. Vyvyan Basterd. The legendary patient zero. 28, sociopathic, heavily medicated and grieving the loss of a soul mate. Introductions were usually the hardest part of the job (especially with the older charges, and Basterd was set to be the oldest charge in recorded history) so Fred would have to be crafty. This guy would be skeptical. He’d have questions. And if Fred didn’t handle things the right way, he’d be back on the green pills before you could say atomic snot rag. Fred shuddered. He’d been down that road before, after all. No  _ thank _ you. 

“Standard protocol, then. Into the garden, find some dog poo, apply  _ generously _ to all indoor surfaces, serve with a grin and a round of snot flicking and hey presto! Patient Zero successfully subdued, balance restored to the universe, thank you Drop Dead Fred! I might even get a medal for this one.” 

But as he ascended the front steps of the former Scumbag share house, something bizarre happened. Something he could neither control or explain. His walk changed from a light, fast-paced bound to more of a sulky, pouty stomp. He threw open the door as if he’d been doing it for years, strode into the entranceway and paused with his hands on his hips. 

“Vyvyan!” He called, in a voice that was both his but  _ not _ his - shrill and nasal and  _ whiny _ , “Vyvyan! I’m home! And you’ve left your shoes in the entranceway again!”

He kicked the offending boots out of his path and stormed into the drawing-room, where he threw himself onto the couch and turned on the telly.

“You better not have taped over my -” He came to his senses in an instant, clapped a hand over his mouth. What was he  _ doing _ ? Was this what everyone had been on about at the DIF? Did Patient Zero have some kind of...demonic power of possession? Was he a witch? A ventriloquist? And why did Fred feel like he  _ knew _ this house, inside and out? Why did he feel comfortable here? At home? As if he’d lived here all his life! He’d never been here before...had he? It didn’t  _ look _ familiar. 

...Except...except it sort of did. And not in the imaginary friend sense of " _ I’m an otherworldly being so I know where everything is" _ , either. But in a real, human sense. In an " _ I know there’s a large ink stain on the kitchen table because I caused it while writing a poem about Thatcher _ "sort of sense. And that just didn’t add up. It made him a bit...well. A bit scared, really. A bit off-kilter. And he decided he’d better locate his new charge quick smart, before this bizarre sense of deja vu really threw his game off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez...whats up with Fred???


	4. Vyv Finds a Friend (Whether He Wants One or Not)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the moment you've all been waiting for!! Everyone's favourite ginger-haired imaginary friend, VS everyone's favourite ginger-haired punk!! I'm waaay too excited about all this, ngl.

_ “He’s going to be alright, isn’t he?” Vyv asked. His eyes were bloodshot. Red rimmed. His seat on the pavement was bloody uncomfortable, and it was far too warm for the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Mike had a hand on his knee, and Neil’s arm was wrapped around his shoulders. The paramedic crouched down beside them looked apologetic, perhaps a little intimidated. She had every right to be, really. _

_ “...They’re not going to be taking Rick to a hospital, Vyv.” Neil whispered. _

_ “Yeah, coz he’s fine. Stupid git’s just being dramatic, as usual.” _

_ “No, Vyv. Erm...Mike?” _

_ The paramedic stepped in then, as gently as she could manage, “There isn’t anything we can do for Rick, Vyvyan. I’m so sorry. He’s already gone.” _

_ “No he hasn’t - I can bloody well see him! He’s right over there! Get up, you twat! Stop wasting everybody’s time!” _

_ “Vyv, Rick’s...Rick’s in a better place. He’s not with us anymore.” Mike’s grip on Vyv’s knee tightened. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. Not at all. _

_ “He’s not...he’s not dead, Mike. He’s fine!” _

_ “Vyv.” Neil said gently. _

_ “...No, no. No, he’s not dead! He’s...he’s just...he can’t...he can’t die! No, he’s...he’s... no!”  _

_ Vyv’s cries were becoming hysterical. Neil put his other arm around him, pulled him to his chest. Mike’s grip on his leg was ironclad. The punk clung to them both as the tears began to fall. He shook with the force of his sobs, screamed whenever he really started to think about the sheer magnitude of what had happened, and waited for someone to tell him it was all some horrible joke. Waited for Rick to leap up from the pavement and laugh at him for being so girly. Or better still, any moment now Vyvyan would wake up in Rick’s bed, and the poet’s arm would be around his waist, warm breath on his arm, and it would all be alright. Rick couldn’t die. Not after all they’d been through. Not now. Not at only twenty two. Neil rocked him back and forth while Mike patted him on the back, and when Vyvyan got himself worked into such a state that he threw up all over his jeans, nobody complained. _

_ Vyv didn’t remember very much, after that. _

__

*

So, up the stairs then, and onto the second floor, where Vyv was still fast asleep in a bed that wasn’t his. Fred’s unexpected, Rick-ish outburst hadn’t disturbed him - he’d reasonably incorporated it into a dream he’d been having. Fred climbed onto the bed, deftly avoiding the funny looking rodent asleep on the pillow, and sat down cross-legged beside the punk. Oh, well. This was going to be  _ easy! _ Vyvyan looked like he’d be tonnes of fun! Fred couldn’t imagine he’d need much prodding to get into an intense game of snot flicking or make mud pies on the table. Look at that hair! Those studs on his face! Clearly, the other IF’s had been amateurs. They just hadn’t been equipped to deal with the vast quantities of... _ Fred _ , that radiated off this particular assignment.

“Oh, this’ll be  _ fun _ .” Fred grinned and rubbed his hands together, trying to decide how to awaken his new best friend. After much deliberation, he went for the old stand by. No point bringing out the big guns  _ just _ yet. With a snort, he regurgitated a particularly thick bit of phlegm from the back of his throat, and hocked a loogie on Vyvyan’s face. 

The punk groaned, rolled over, stretched. Wiped the spit off his cheek without question. He reached for his pills and his drink, eyes closed, then took a swig and tried to bring some life back into his dry throat.

“Morning, poof.” He muttered.

“Morning!” Fred cheered. Vyv froze with his back to his new bedmate, eyes still firmly shut, one hand still closed around the half-empty vodka bottle.

“...Hello?”

Silence. Oh, bloody brilliant. He was  _ hearing _ things again. 

Fred teleported to the other side of the bed, appearing directly in front of Vyvyan’s face with a sneer.

“Boo!”

“Jesus Christ!” Vyv yelled. He rolled backwards with the bottle still in his hand, silently lamenting the loss of all the drain cleaner he’d spilled on the sheets.

“Close! Drop Dead Fred, at your service.” Fred licked the palm of his hand and stuck it out for Vyv to shake, entirely unphased when the punk simply stared at him in horror. 

“...Poof?”

“I can if you like.” Fred disappeared in a puff of green smoke, then reappeared on the other side of the room, “Poof! Pretty great, hey?”

“...You’re...Christ. What are you, a ghost?”

“Nope!”

“A hallucination?”

“WRONG!” Fred stuck his hands in his pockets and surveyed the room for something to break. Vyv gripped onto the bedside table and tried to make sense of the situation. It took him a minute, but he got there in the end.

“...Oh, bloody hell. Don’t tell me. You’re my  _ imaginary friend _ .”

“Bingo, bingo! Snotface has bingo! That means  _ you _ get the grand prize!”

Fred came back to the bed, picked his nose, and wiped it across the punk’s cheek.

“Like it? Have another!” Fred said as he repeated the process on the other cheek. Vyv grabbed him by the shoulders and looked at him.  _ Really _ looked. It was bloody uncanny. They could have been twins! Granted, he looked a little bit older, and his hair was orange instead of Rick’s mousy brown, but...still. Nobody could say that his subconscious didn’t know how to fuck him over. Vyv felt positively ill. 

“...Rick.” He muttered. 

“No,  _ Fred _ . What are you, deaf?”

“Fred.” Vyv nodded, “Fred. Frederick. Right. I get it. Very bloody funny.”

“Is it?” Fred asked, “Why aren’t you laughing?”

“Because it’s not funny!” Vyv snapped.

“You just said it was!”

“Well it isn’t! Look, this really isn’t a very good time. I can’t afford a breakdown right now! I’ve got things to do.”

“Great! I’ll help you!” Fred weaseled out of Vyvyan’s grip and yanked back the covers, sending SPG flying across the room. “What should we do first? Hide and seek, or Monopoly?” 

“Piss off!” Vyv shoved Fred out of the way and got up to get ready for work. He  _ knew _ he shouldn’t have gone off those bloody meds. 

“Amazing! I’ve not been here five minutes, and you already know the magic words!” Fred got to his feet and bounded over to the cracked mirror above the dresser, where Vyv was trying very hard to ignore the obvious deterioration in his mental state. This... _ Fred _ , was not Rick. He looked like him, and he sounded like him, but that was where the similarities stopped. And Vyv wasn’t about to hang around and endure painful psychological torture in the form of a poor Rick substitute. Certainly not when he should have been at work. 

“Are we going out?” Fred asked. Vyv ignored him, “Brilliant! Where are we going? The zoo? The park? We could go find a bridge and hock loogies. Oh wait! Shit! No! I have to read out the Imaginary Friend clause first. I always forget that bit. Hold on!” 

From the inside pocket of his jacket, Fred produced an enormous piece of paper. After shooting a charming smile in Vyvyan’s direction, he began to read.

“I, Drop Dead Fred, do humbly decree that I am from this point onwards, for all intents and purposes, your personal imaginary friend, until such time when my services are no longer required. As your imaginary friend it is my duty to-“

“- put your happiness above all others, and prioritise fun above all else. Yes, I  _ know _ the bloody clause.” 

“Oh, phew! I  _ hate _ that bit, anyway. Who wants to hear about some stupid, smelly old clause when we could be off having fun!” Fred tossed the paper across the room and through the window pane with a satisfying smash.

“Look mate, I don’t know if you’ve heard what happened to the last bloke they sent to me-“

“Course I have! You ripped off his head, stuffed toilet paper in his mouth and flushed him down the lavvy!  _ Everyone’s _ heard about that one, Snotface.” 

“Yeah, well, unless you wanna join him-“

“Ha! You don’t scare me! That was years and years and  _ years _ ago. You’re all old now. Old and slow and grown-up, and bo-ring!” 

“Don’t  _ bloody _ tempt me.” Vyv muttered. Try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to look Fred in the eye. He focused on combing his hair and prying SPG off the skirting board instead. He didn’t bother asking if the hamster could see the bizarre green apparition in the bedroom - he knew full well that he couldn’t.

“What’s this for?” Fred grabbed the sleeve of Vyvyan’s lab coat from its spot on the bed and shook it until Vyv slapped his hand away.

“It’s for my work! I’m a doctor.”

“A doctor! What, at a hospital? With lots of sick people and blood and guts and death?”

“Yeah.”

“Great! Let’s go!” 

“Piss off! I’m not bloody well going into work if  _ you’re  _ going to come with me!” 

“Well that’s just  _ tough _ , isn’t it? Because the clause says I have to go anywhere you go, which you’d know if you let me finish it!”

“You’re the one who threw it out the sodding window!” Vyv groaned, “Just...Look. Just go  _ away! _ I don’t want you here. You’re a pain in my bloody arse and I haven’t got the time!” 

“I can’t! I’m not allowed to go  _ anywhere _ until you start getting happy. It’s my  _ job _ .”

“Well then you’re gonna be waiting around a bloody long time!”

“Good!” Fred replied, “More time for breaking things!”

No laughter. Not even a smile, or at the very least a look of hesitant curiosity. Vyvyan was a tough nut to crack, that much was obvious, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. The punk was exhibiting all the classic signs of a suspicious problem child. A bit worrying in a twenty-eight-year-old man, but hey. At least Fred knew where he stood. 

Or at least, he thought he did. Because when Vyvyan shoved Fred out of the way and stormed out of the bedroom, he was more than a little deterred. But wait! There were stairs in this house, weren’t there? He’d do his banister trick! That always got a laugh. Well, almost always. Well, sometimes. Well...well,  _ he _ thought it was funny, anyway! And this Vyvyan was obviously a top bloke, even if he was a bit rough round the edges, so he’d  _ surely _ think it was hilarious! 

Fred reached the stairs a split second before Vyvyan did and threw himself onto the railing. All was going well - or so he thought - but the fun was promptly brought to an end when the punk gave him a hard shove and he went sailing back into the entranceway. Vyvyan didn’t even slow down. He continued on his course to the kitchen, put the kettle on, made tea. Fred yanked his head out of the new hole in the wall and shook the plaster out of his hair.

“Well.” He said, “That’s a new one.” 

“Christ.” Vyv muttered, “ _ Christ _ .”

This was a nightmare. A horrible, horrible nightmare. Why,  _ why _ did all his stupid bloody hallucinations have to come back as soon as he went off his meds? Fine, fine. He’d just have to go back on them then, wouldn’t he? Just have to make this...Fred character go away before things got any more out of hand. Before -

Fred stormed into the drawing-room in a rage, plaster stains all over his jacket. Vyvyan ignored him entirely, kept his eyes focused on the tea. Until something could be done about this situation, he’d just have to pretend Fred didn’t exist. 

Fred, meanwhile, was having his own crisis. That strange  _ otherness _ had come over him again - that feeling of deja vu. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d stomped over to Vyvyan, shoved him, and started to yell in the same strange nasal voice from before.

“You bastard!” He snapped. A weak, strangled noise came from somewhere in the back of Vyv’s throat. Fred carried on regardless, “You might want to weconsider this attitude of yours, young man! Because let me tell you, I’m getting pwetty bloody sick of it!”

There he was. It was him. Couldn’t possibly be anyone else. Vyvyan cupped the side of Fred’s face in disbelief, his thumb ghosting across the former poet’s cheekbone. Fred recoiled instantly, as if he’d been slapped. 

“Get off me you fascist! I-“ He stopped. What the bloody  _ hell _ was going on?! Why did this keep happening? He looked at Vyvyan helplessly. The punk stared right back. 

“...I dunno why I said that.” Fred sniffed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels in a vague attempt to regain his composure. “...sorry.” 

“...you’re alright.” Vyv replied. Alright. So he’d either entirely lost the plot, and hallucinated some kind of bizarre version of Rick that didn’t quite fit the bill, or…

Or somehow, Rick was back. Back in some form, anyway. A bit like a ghost. He’d had ghosts in the house before, hadn’t he? Was it really so hard to believe that Rick was haunting him? 

...And was there any benefit to ignoring this strange apparition? To going back on the medication, making him go away? Not that Vyv could see. Not if he was stuck living the same horrendous cycle of work and sleep until he inevitably - pardon the pun - dropped dead. 

“Erm… d’you want...tea?” He asked. Fred frowned.

“What, like a tea party? Cause I don’t do those, you know! Not ever! Not even with  _ girls _ . They’re stupid and girly and boring and  _ dull _ !” 

“Not a tea party.” Vyv snapped, “What are we, five? Look, if you don’t want tea, it's hardly any skin off my bloody nose! I was only  _ asking _ .” 

“...Have you got any sugar?”

“No.”

“Argh. Bo-ring!” 

“Fine, suit yourself.” Vyv shrugged and sat down at the kitchen table, waiting to see if Fred would sit down opposite. He sat on top of the table instead. Typical.

“Aren’t you going to have any breakfast?”

“Not hungry.” Vyv muttered. It was one hell of an understatement. 

“ _Not hungry_.” Fred mimicked, “Look at you, you big girl. You look _awful_. Absolutely sickening! In fact, when I clapped eyes on you my first instinct was to _be_ _sick_ all over you. You look _dead_. But... you’d probably look a bit better after you’ve had something to eat.” 

“God, you’re just a bloody delight, aren’t you?” 

Fred grinned, “Hey, I know what’ll get your appetite up! Wait here!” 

He leaped off the table and ran out into the garden, leaving Vyv to mull things over.

Rick, but...not Rick. Rick sometimes, but not always. Did he...used to be Rick? And now he somehow couldn’t remember? But sometimes he had brief, momentary lapses and  _ became  _ Rick? 

Fred barged back into the kitchen with an arm full of mud, interrupting Vyvyan’s thoughts and making a mess all over the carpet. And then the table, once he’d dumped the pile of muck all over it. 

“Ha, ha!” Fred shouted, “Wait, it’s not finished yet! Have you got any cornflakes?” 

“...In the cupboard.” 

“Great!” Fred threw open all the cupboards at once and began to rummage. Anything that looked halfway edible went onto the pile of wet dirt, and was then showered with muddy handfuls of cornflakes while Vyv looked on in amazement.

“Milk?” Fred asked.

“Fridge. What are you  _ doing _ ?”

“Making a mud pie, stupid! What’s it look like?” 

“With cornflakes?” Vyv poked the alleged  _ mud-pie _ with a finger. It wasn’t unlike the lentil casseroles Neil used to make when they were students. 

“Of course with cornflakes! You can’t have a mudpie without cornflakes, Snotface. Don’t you know  _ anything?” _

"And you can’t have cornflakes without ketchup, bogey-bum. Don’t  _ you _ know anything?”

Ah-ha! Success! Fred knew he was an alright bloke deep down.

_ Ketchup and cornflakes in a mud pie? Right on! I mean, brilliant! I mean… Cliff, shit, what...what’s happening?! _

“Ketchup!” Fred echoed. He was having a hard time keeping his voice even, but Vyv didn’t seem to notice, “Course! Can’t have a mud pie without ketchup.”

“In the fridge.” Vyv clarified. Fred poured the whole bottle onto the table, wiped the hair out of his eyes, and surveyed his handiwork. 

“What you think?” Fred asked.

“...Looks alright.” Vyv shrugged, “Chuck us a fork then.”

“Right, yes! A fork! Of course! Can’t have a mud pie without… what d’you want a fork for?”

“Well I’m not gonna eat it with my bloody hands!”

...Oh. Well, that...was new. Fred had been making mud pies with his charges for as long as he could remember, and no one - absolutely no one - had ever tried to eat them. It was just sort of a joke. A gag. Something to make the kids laugh. So when he handed Vyvyan a fork from the drawer, it was done with a great deal of reluctance, and more than a little fear. He sat on a clean patch on the table and watched in awe as Vyv piled the mud, ketchup, milk, cornflakes, and even a worm onto his fork, then swallowed it all without so much as a wince. 

“Are you gonna eat some, or are you just gonna sit and watch me?” 

“Ha! Am I going to eat some? What do you think I am?  _ Scared _ ?” 

“Yes.” Vyv sneered, and a sneer was  _ almost _ a smile. 

“Right.” Fred rolled up his sleeves, took some mudpie in his hands and shoved it straight into his gob. Through a mouthful of dirty cornflakes he mimicked Vyvyan’s sneer and replied, “ _ Still _ think I’m scared, fartpants?” 

Finally, some progress. The corners of Vyv’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, revealing the tiniest, most minute of smiles. It was brief and fleeting, but it would have to do. 

“Eat a lot of mud pies, then?” Fred asked. It seemed a fairly reasonable question, given the circumstances.

“Nah. I ate a telly once, though.”

“Piss off!” Fred was skeptical, but he could tell by the mad look in his eyes that the punk wasn’t lying. “Oh, I  _ like _ you. We’re gonna have lots of fun. I can already tell.”

Vyv’s smile faded, and his fork hovered in mid-air over the table of filth. He looked at Fred, and the sullen scowl returned.

“...you’re not Rick.” He said. Fred groaned.

“No, I’m Fred! I thought we’d been over this already!”

“Exactly. You’re Fred. You’re not Rick. You’re not going to  _ replace _ Rick, you’re not going to make me forget about Rick, and you’re absolutely not bloody well going to try and be Rick!” He stood up so suddenly that he nearly flipped the table, and stormed back off to his room to fetch his coat and keys. This was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Rick was dead. He was always going to be dead! And the mad bastard in his kitchen could just bloody well piss off! Mud pies! What did he think this was? A fucking  _ game _ ? 

Back in the kitchen, Fred picked the dirt out from under his nails, and when SPG came downstairs for breakfast he regarded the hamster with moderate interest. 

“I think that went well.” He told the rodent. SPG, of course, ignored him.


	5. Fred, Not Rick!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, hello! We're back again with our two favourite gingers, and tensions are running high. I hope you weren't expecting them them to get along from the off, because...we've got a long way to go yet!

_“Are you gonna stay in bed all day, Bogey-bum?” Vyv asked as he watched his boyfriend drool all over the pillow. He was lying on his stomach with his head on his arm, dressed in his girl bait Y-fronts and Vyv’s ratty old pyjama top with SPG curled up in the small of his back. Horribly domestic. Nauseating. Vyv grinned at the mere sight of it - he’d never felt so bloody lucky._

_“Hmm, I might.” Rick put his arm around Vyv’s hips, slipped a finger through his belt loop for better leverage. Vyv ducked down and kissed the corner of Rick’s mouth, twirling one finger around a lock of his hair._

_“God you’re gorgeous.” He murmured. Rick blushed._

_“What did you say, Vyvyan?”_

_"I said you’re an ugly bastard.” Vyvyan replied as he left a trail of kisses down the side of the poet’s face._

_“Mm, no you didn’t. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”_

*

Vyv climbed into the Anglia and started the engine. He tried to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat when Fred appeared in the passenger seat with his feet up on the dash, but it wasn’t easy. From the side, Fred looked even more like Rick than before. Vyv hadn’t noticed the tiny little plaits sticking out the back of his head, but from this angle they were obvious - clearly visible. It made the punk homesick. 

“Who’s Rick?” Fred asked. 

“None of your bloody business.” Vyv muttered. 

“Come _ooon_ , you can tell me. What is he? Brother? Uncle? _Boyfriend_?”

“Shut it.”

“Ha! Boyfriend then. I _knew_ it.” Fred grinned and fiddled with the levers on the seat until it reclined to a more comfortable angle, “You’re disgusting. Boyfriend! Just when I was starting to think you were _cool_.”

Vyv shrugged and kept his eyes on the road. In his mind, he was already putting in his prescription for those magical little green pills. 

“Which one of you was the girl?” Fred asked. 

“Rick.” Vyv responded, even though he took a small degree of personal offence to the question. It was nothing compared to the personal offence _Rick_ would have taken, but it was still more than one might have expected from a self confessed psychopathic punk. 

“Did you do it like the pigeons?”

“What?”

“ _You know_.” Fred grinned, “Did you do it like the pigeons do it? Who did the stamping and pecking? Was it you?”

“God, you talk a lot of bollocks.” 

“So where’s Rick, then? What happened? Didja have a fight? Who won?” Fred started to mess around with the various buttons and knobs on the radio, flicking it from Rick’s preferred station to some bizarre punk channel. Vyv recognised it instantly - it had always been on before Rick staked a claim over the radio on long drives. No news, just music. Pistols and Ramones. Christ, he hadn’t heard any of it in years.

“He’s gone.” Vyv muttered. His grip on the steering wheel tightened. 

“Dumped you, then. Ha! I’m not surprised if you were this mopey and boring all the time!” Fred leaned across and poked one of the studs on Vyv’s head with interest, “So that’s what’ll make you happy, is it? Getting Rick back? Because I can help! I’m _great_ at getting people back together.”

...Well, not really. But Lizibeth hardly counted! That Charles bloke was no good for her! And she was better off in the end, wasn’t she? From what he’d seen while looking after Nat, Lizzie was doing better than ever before. Maybe it’d be the same for Vyv’yan. Maybe he could help him get over this Rick character! Maybe -

“He’s dead.” Vyv said, “He died. Long time ago now.”

“...Oh.” Fred replied. Grief...grief was really _not_ his area of expertise. If any of his charges were grieving - maybe over a parent, or something similar - his usual course of action was to try and fill the presence they’d lost and eventually teach them to make up for it themselves. A bit like stepping in for Lizzie’s father after he walked out, or teaching her how to be a more complete person without Charles. But Vyv had already made it perfectly clear that this was not the way to go about it. Fred didn’t want to _replace_ anyone! He’d never needed to! 

“Told you. You can’t help me. No one can. So just...leave me alone, alright?” Vyv sighed, “Christ, look at me. Talking to a bloody hallucination.”

“I _told_ you! I’m not a hallucination! I’m -”

“An imaginary friend. Yeah, you said. But you’re only here cause I’m off my sodding meds.”

“...Not the green pills.”

“Yeah, the green pills! And as soon as I get down the hospital I’m going right back fucking _on_ them! So just shut your stupid mouth and let me think!”

Fred shut it. The green pills? _Already_ ? This really _was_ going to be more of a challenge than he thought. He’d have to act fast if he wanted to save his skin.

“Hey,” Fred said, a little more hesitantly than usual, “Watch _this_.”

He folded the top of his ear in on itself, winced, and grinned as it popped back out. 

“Ta-da!” He yelled. Vyv looked away as quick as he could. Rick used to do that. All the bloody time - it was the only half-decent party trick the bastard had. And god, it was _stupid_ , but it used to make Vyv cackle with laughter. If he was having a rough night, full of nightmares and bad thoughts and that funny tight feeling in his chest, Rick would do his stupid ear trick until the punk was smiling again. Seeing Fred do it felt like sacrilege.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the ear trick. I cannot tell you how hard I've tried to do that bloody ear trick. Wouldn't be Fred (or Rick, or...Rik) without it though, would it?


	6. The Doctor is in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies. First and foremost, I'm 99.9% sure this is NOT how doctors in hospitals work; moving from A&E to specific patients and all the rest of it. And it's only going to get more wildly inaccurate as time goes on. Sorry. My excuse is that its Dr. Basterd, and like our lord and saviour Doctor Gregory House, Dr. Basterd goes where he pleases and does what he likes :) 
> 
> Thanks for all the support guys <3 grateful, as always.

_ “What are you doing today?” Rick asked as he put a mug of tea on the table in front of the punk, who drank it gratefully before applying a dollop of ketchup to his cornflakes. _

_ “Clinic duty.” He said, “Last part of my placement.” _

_ “Back late?” _

_ “Prob’ly. Why? Gonna miss me?” _

_ “Miss you! Ha! Cliff knows it’s the only way I’ll get some peace and ruddy quiet! I might actually get some coursework done.” _

_ “Not bloody likely.” Vyv replied, “Knowing your attention span.” _

_ “You watch your mouth, young man.” Rick crossed behind him and paused to kiss him on the cheek, but Vyv turned his head at the last second and caught him on the lips. There was that taste again, of lukewarm sugary tea. Vyv stuck his tongue in Rick’s mouth to try and make the most of it, which in turn made the poet squeal and pull away. _

_ “Vyvyan! That’s disgusting!” _

_ “You love it.” Vyvyan grabbed Rick by the waistband of his jeans and hauled him into his lap, proving his point with another sloppy kiss. Things got out of hand soon after, as they almost always did. Before long, Rick’s hands were down the back of Vyv’s Y fronts while the punk’s were wandering up under Rick’s shirt. There was hardly any space left on Rick’s neck for more hickeys, but Vyv made do. He always did. _

_ “...I think I ought to call in sick today.” Vyv muttered, in between methodical licks to the poet’s neck. _

_ “I think you bloody better!” Rick replied, “Bedroom?” _

_ “Bedroom. Race you?” _

_ “You’re on!”  _

*

Vyv clocked on at nine, which was...almost on time, actually. For once. His coworkers gave him a wide berth has he stalked down the corridor, very aware that the punk appeared to be in a worse mood than usual. Fred trotted behind him, adorned in a rather smashing green doctor’s coat, and continued to chatter as if absolutely nothing was wrong. Vyv ignored him - he’d had a life time of tuning Rick out, so it really wasn’t so hard - and stopped the first nurse he came across once he crossed into the madness that was Accident and Emergency.

“Where’d you need me?” He asked.

“Could you check on Mrs Pugh before you start your rounds? The family won’t have anyone else.”

“Christ.” Vyv groaned, “I dunno  _ why _ . I’m only going to say the same thing as every other doctor in the bloody place.”

The nurse shrugged. Why the Pugh’s wanted anything to do with Dr. Basterd was as much a mystery to her as it was to Vyv. 

Mrs Pugh was eighty-seven, frail, and truly on her way out. At the family’s insistence, she’d been plugged into every important piece of equipment the hospital had to offer, and was completely unresponsive. Comatose, really. Vyvyan’s relationship with the old bat was a complex one - she was a relic from the compulsory clinic placements towards the end of degree. A right bitch, she was. Nobody could do anything right as far as she was concerned. But for  _ some _ reason, the punk had unintentionally wormed his way into her affections. Sort of. She was still a right bitch to Vyvyan, but she wouldn’t let anybody else come near her.

And now she was dying. Should have been dead a long time ago, really. Vyv knew she wasn’t going to come back - there would be no spontaneous recovery. She was an old woman, and it was her time. There wasn’t anything else to it, really. 

Vyvyan stepped into her room with the nurse (and Fred) in tow, and regarded Mrs Pugh’s thin frame with detached professionalism. The ventilator pumped away amiably, the heart rate monitor beeped, and Fred’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“ _ Wow! _ Snotface, look at all this stuff! What does this do?” Fred crawled under the bed and across to the heart rate monitor, where he tapped the glass screen the way one might tap a fish tank. Vyv sighed and turned to the nurse.

“What do you want me to do? She’s practically dead!”

“I know, Doctor Basterd.”

“Vyv’yan! This one’s plugged in! What is it? She sounds like Darth Vader!” Fred mimicked the whistly breathing sound emanating from the ventilator, hoping it might elicit some sort of reaction. It didn’t. 

“At this point all this bloody equipment’s just a waste of everyone’s time.” Vyv continued, “If they’re looking for a different opinion, they’re not gonna get one from me. If it were up to me, we’d have pulled the plug days ago.”

“What plug?  _ This _ plug?”

“Well there isn’t much we can do, Doctor Basterd. We’ve got to respect the family’s wishes. If you want to try and convince them-”

Fred yanked on one end of the ventilator chord, triggering the heart rate monitor and sending it into a flatline. Mrs Pugh slipped away rather unceremoniously, much to Vyvyan’s (reluctant) relief. 

“Shit!” Fred hissed. He tried plugging the ventilator back in, but it made no difference to Mrs Pugh’s overall condition.

“...How did.” The nurse looked at Vyvyan in disbelief. He shrugged.

“Erm...a sign from god? Look, I’ve got to get on. Have you got the charts for A&E?”

“Uh, yes, um… Sorry. I’m a bit -” She forced a smile, “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

Another shrug, “Yeah, well. Life goes on. Ashes to ashes.”

“Funk to funky!” Fred added. He moved away from the rapidly cooling Mrs Pugh and came to stand beside Vyvyan, who didn’t even throw him a glance.

“The charts, Dawn. Give me the bloody charts!”

“Right, right. Sorry. Here. Um, bed four. Looks like a broken leg.”

“Right.” Vyv looked it over with a stiff nod, “Why don’t you go and call Mrs Pugh’s family, then? Set things in motion.”

“They said they’d only want to talk to you -”

“Well, I’m busy.” Vyv snapped. He stepped out of the room and back down towards accident and emergency, forever pursued by his imaginary friend. 

“I dunno  _ what _ happened in there.” Fred told him, “But I  _ swear _ , Snotface, I had  _ nothing _ to do with it!”

“Right, bed four. Broken leg.” Vyv muttered. He kept his head down, eyes on the chart, and focussed on the task at hand.

“Are you gonna ignore me  _ all _ day?” Fred asked. Vyv ignored him. He pulled back the curtain around bed four and stepped inside, ignoring Fred’s protests as he got stuck in the fabric. 

“Morning. Mrs Longbottom, is it? I’m Dr. Basterd. What’s the problem?”

“ _ Longbottom! _ ” Fred cackled, “Piss  _ off! _ Does it really say that on the chart? Let me look at it.” Fred tried to wrestle the chart out of Vyv’s hands, but the punk stood firm. He kept a blank, deadpan expression as he listened to Mrs Longbottom explain exactly  _ how _ she’d hurt her leg, while the hand holding the chart was pushed, pulled and smacked around by a seemingly invisible force.

“...Are you alright, Doctor?” Mrs Longbottom asked, once it became apparent that the violent convulsions affecting his arm weren’t going to stop any time soon.

“Haven’t had my morning coffee yet.” Vyvyan explained, “I’ll just examine the leg, and we’ll see if you need an X-ray. Are you having any pain?”

“Quite a lot, yes. The nurse said you could give me something to help?”

He shook Fred off and bent over the bed to gently prod at the woman’s shin. Fred leaned in for a closer look, frowned, shook his head.

“Oh, no. This isn’t good at all!  _ That _ leg’s going to have to come off! You hold her down, Vyv’yan, and I’ll get the chainsaw!” 

“Shut  _ up _ .” Vyv growled. Mrs Longbottom recoiled.

“What did you say?”

Fred opened his mouth to deliver his classic line, but Vyvyan got there first.

“I told you to shut up! What are you, deaf? Look, I can give you some Penthrox for the worst of the pain, but if you keep talking I won’t be able to examine you properly.”

“...Sorry.”

Vyv grunted, “...Looks like a break, but we’d better take you for an x-ray to confirm. I’ll go get the Penthrox and tell the nurse, alright?” He stepped back out from behind the curtain and tried to ignore the tearful look in Mrs Longbottom’s eyes. 

“Do you always scream at your patients?” Fred asked. 

“Do you always try and make life miserable for your charges?” Vyv replied. 

“Oi! I’m just trying to make things a bit more interesting!  _ You’re _ the one who’s making it all boring and grown up!” Fred paused, “And besides, I’ve never had any charges other than you, so  _ there _ .”

“There aren’t enough imaginary friends in the world for that to be true.” Vyv replied, “Especially not after all the poor sods I’ve killed.”

“Oh, yeah.  _ That’s right _ . You’re a murderer! A friend killer! Is that what you’re going to do, is it? Hmm? You gonna kill me, you  _ fascist _ ?”

“You’re on thin fucking ice.” Vyv snapped as he walked past an orderly, who only threw him the most minor glance of concern. They didn’t call Basterd the Mad Doc for nothing, after all. 

“Murderer!” Fred sneered, “Murdy-murdy-murderer! I bet you killed that Rick bloke, too, didn’t you? Where is he? Trapped in a freezer somewhere, cut into thousands of teeny tiny pieces?!”

Vyvyan grabbed Fred by the collar of his snot green doctor’s coat and slammed him against the nearest wall, rattling every bed in the near vicinity.

“This is where you stop talking.” Vyv spat, “Right here. Unless you want me to separate your head from your shoulders and shove it up your fucking arse!” 

“Oh, that’s a  _ charming _ way for a doctor to behave! Really blimmin’  _ caring _ of you, Vyvyan. Honestly, you’d think in the six years since I knew you, you’d have developed some sort of bedside manner!”

Vyv drew his hand back as if he’d been burned, and Fred clung to the wall to try and steady himself. 

“You did it again! Like you did before. How’s that done then?” Vyvyan asked. Patients in the surrounding area were starting to stare, but neither he nor Fred paid any attention. 

“I don’t...I dunno.” Fred replied.

“Bring him back!” His hands went to Fred’s throat and he shook him frantically, as if that would somehow recover the spirit of the People’s Poet. 

“I can’t! I don’t know how!” Fred shrugged apologetically, offered up a small smile, “It just sort of happens sometimes! It never has before.  _ You’re _ causing it somehow.”

“Me?” Vyv frowned. What could he say that might trigger Fred’s Rick side? “...Erm, shut your face, you... stupid girly virgin?”

“Get  _ off _ me, you bastard! I’m not a virgin! You ruddy well  _ know _ I’m not a virgin after all the disgusting things you’ve done to my bottom!”

Fred clapped a hand over his mouth and gagged. It had to be the vilest thing he’d ever said, and not in the good sense either! It was worse than talking to Lizibeth or Natalie about love and  _ romance _ . Worse than looking up the Mega-bitch’s skirt to see if she had any cobwebs! Vyvyan, meanwhile, was smiling. No, not smiling.  _ Grinning _ . After a minute or so he started to laugh.

“What?” Fred asked, “What is it? What’s going on?”

Vyv shook his head and laughed harder as he pulled Fred into a headlock. Any onlookers had by then averted their eyes, silently hoping that  _ this _ was not the doctor that was going to be assigned to their care. Vyvyan’s laughter turned into a series of ugly sobs as he tousled Fred’s hair, fingers tangling in the plaits at the back of his head. Fred was too dumbstruck to speak. This was...all too weird. Bizarre, even by his standards. 

“You bastard.” Vyv sniffed, “You absolute bastard. It really is you, isn’t it? You’re in there somewhere. Christ, I...I thought I’d never see you again!”

“Eugh!” Fred slipped out of Vyvyan’s embrace and took a number of steps back, “Disgusting! What are you, a  _ girl _ ? Oh, that’s just typical, isn’t it? Drop Dead Fred, stuck hanging around with a big girl!” 

Another laugh, another grin. Vyv wiped his eyes and straightened his coat. He looked around the A&E at the patients who were frantically trying to look everywhere  _ but _ the clinically insane punk in a doctor’s coat. 

“What’s up with you lot?!” He snapped. Back on footing he understood, Fred quickly joined in on the punk’s outburst, adding fuel to the fire.

“Yeah! Haven’t you ever seen a doctor argue with his imaginary friend before?!”

*

From there it seemed that Vyvyan’s workday was only improving. Every patient got a little more than they bargained for; a bit of chaotic energy they ordinarily wouldn’t have received. Vyvyan kicked open every door, tore through every curtain, and greeted every ailment with a sick smile and a shrill cackle of laughter. Fred tagged along behind him, causing mayhem wherever possible, but honestly...there weren’t that many opportunities. More often than not, Doctor Basterd got in first. 

“What’s the issue?” Vyv asked as he invaded the private cubicle of a young boy with bloodshot eyes and a trembling hand on his arm.

“Erm...my arm hurts when I do this.” The boy, who looked about twenty or so, lifted his arm above his head with a whimper.

“Then don’t do that.” Vyv and Fred replied, in perfect unison. 

“For how long?”

“Hey, Vyv’yan! Watch this!” Fred teleported onto the bed, licked his fingers, then stuck them in the patient’s ears. Vyv snickered and turned his attention back to the boy in his care.

“I dunno. For as long as it takes to stop hurting, I spose.”

Fred pressed his eye up against the patient’s ear canal, gasped, and did a double take.

“I don’t believe it! Snotface, get a look at this! This boy has absolutely  _ nothing _ between his ears! No brain at all! It’s a medical marvel! This boy has no brain!”

“But what about my pain? Can’t you give me anything for the pain?”

“Ah, well. I  _ could _ shove a pair of forceps up your bottom.” Vyv replied. 

“Yeah! Let’s do that! I’ll get the forceps!”

“...Would...Would that help with the pain?” 

“Not  _ technically _ , no. But it would be so painful, that you’d forget  _ all _ about the pain in your arm, and focus on the searing, blinding pain in your bum instead.”

“...You’re not serious.”

“You wanna stick around and find out?” Vyv asked. The boy got up and shuffled out of the cubicle as quickly as his legs would carry him, while Fred rolled around on the hospital bed, clutching his stomach and wailing with laughter.

“Did we fix him?” Fred asked.

“Nothing to fix. Typical drug-seeking behaviour. Few of the other doctors have had a bit of trouble with him - he’ll probably be back again tomorrow.”

Fred had already lost interest, choosing to filter out all the boring grown-up words that didn’t make a lick of sense. He was too busy examining a scalpel lifted from Vyv’s front pocket.

“Hey, snotface, wanna see a magic trick?”

“Yeah, go on then.”

“Great!” Fred held up his hand, which was suddenly clothed in a bright green fingerless glove. His index finger had very obviously been replaced with a fake one, while his real finger was sticking out a new hole in the front of the glove, obscured from Vyvyan’s view. Well, it  _ should _ have been obscured from view. Obviously, Fred wasn’t the best at magic tricks.

“Ready? Here we go! One, two,  _ three _ !” Fred lifted the scalpel above his head, brought it down, and instead of cutting off the fake finger, Fred sliced through the real one instead. It rolled onto the floor and under the bed, while Fred’s hand was violently coated in a glorious display of red, visceral blood and some peculiar bright green liquid. 

“...Oh dear.” Fred squeaked, “Wrong finger!”

“Oi!” Vyv yelled, “That’s  _ my _ bloody trick! You stole that from me!”

“Did  _ not! _ ”

“Did too! I came up with that when I was in college!”

“Impossible! I’ve  _ always _ done the finger trick! It’s a trademark Fred special. You  _ obviously _ stole it from me!” Fred rocked back on heels and landed in front of Vyvyan, waggling his bloodied stump in the punk’s face. Vyv barely noticed - he was too deep in thought. 

“...I can’t believe the bastard remembered that.” He muttered, “I didn’t even think he was paying attention.”

Fred retrieved his finger from under the bed and reattached it with a satisfying crack, then grinned at the punk expectantly. 

“What’s next then? Broken nose? Wonky eyebrows? Triple victim car crash with all the blood and guts?”

Car crash.

_ What was he doing on the road? He came out of nowhere, didn’t see him coming. Killed instantly. Wouldn’t have felt a thing, Vyv, honest. Rick wouldn’t want you to dwell. _

“...No.” Vyv croaked, “No, ah. We’re done. For the day. Time to go home.”

“Already?! We’ve only just got here!”

“Come on.” Vyv grunted. He stood up and rubbed his eyes to try and banish the sight of Rick sprawled out on the pavement. No luck. It’d pass eventually - god knew it always did - but never soon enough. Fred shrugged and bounced down the corridor, then paused and waited for Vyv to catch up.

“Are you leaving, Doctor Basterd?” One of the nurses asked as he clocked out. He shot her a glance. Christ. It was Mary.

“Don’t feel too well.” He replied, “Might take some time off.”

“Oh, no!” She put a hand on his arm while Fred dropped down to get a look under her skirt.

“Cor! I tell you what, Vyv’yan, I’ve seen some cobwebs in my time, but this is  _ ridiculous! _ This is a cobweb invasion! An epidemic! She’s absolutely  _ desperate _ !”

_ ‘Yeah, I know.’ _ Vyv thought. He’d been trying to deter Mary for years. 

“Are you coming down with something? Maybe you need someone to come and look after you!” Her hand drifted up towards his bicep, and before Fred could stop himself he was up like a shot and back into Rick-mode.

“Oi! Why don’t you keep your hands to yourself, you jammy cow!”

Vyv shrugged out of her grip with an embarrassed cough and scratched the back of his neck to prevent her from latching onto his arm a second time.

“Nah, erm. You’re alright, Mare. I’d rather just be on my own for a bit.”

“Yeah, so  _ piss off _ ! Slag! Vulture! Can’t you see he’s in mourning?!”

Mary sighed, “Oh, Vyv. You can’t keep spending all this time on your own. It’s not healthy! It’s been  _ years _ . You’ve got to ask yourself; would Rick  _ really _ want you to dwell?”

“Yes he bloody well would!” Fred snapped. Vyv covered his mouth with his hand to hide a smirk. 

“See you later, Mare.” Vyv patted her shoulder and made a hasty retreat with his imaginary friend in tow, who was still decidedly more Rick than Fred. 

“Absolute trollop! Honestly, the nerve of some people!”

“You don’t know the half of it, poof. She’s been on me since the bloody funeral!” Vyv replied as they stepped out into the car park. 

“...Why’d you call me that?” Fred asked.

“What? Poof?”

“Yeah,  _ poof _ .”

“I dunno. Just sort of...slipped out. I used to call yo- ...I used to call  _ Rick _ poof. When he was alive.”

“Hmph. Well, I’m not-”

“Not Rick. I know.”

“Exactly! I’m  _ Drop Dead Fred _ , so you can just stop with all that  _ poof _ lark right now!”

“Fine!” Vyv shrugged, climbed into the Anglia, and threw a glance at his watch. He’d only been at work for about three hours. Felt like a bloody eternity. He threw Fred another cautious sideways glance as he fired up the engine. “...You look just like him, you know.”

Fred rolled his eyes, “No,  _ he _ looks just like me!  _ I’m _ the original here, mate. Drop Dead Fred, the one and only!”

“Sound just like him, too. Just...without the lisp.”

“Oh,  _ gross _ . Spare me all the gory details, Vyv’yan. I have better things to do than hear all about your dead boyfriend!”

“Watch your mouth.” Vyv snapped. Fred leaned across the gear stick and glared at him.

“Dead. Boyfriend. Dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead! Duh-Eh-Dud!” Fred replied, and then blew a raspberry for emphasis. 

“Do you  _ want _ me to wring your bloody neck?!”

“ _ Ooooh! Do you want me to wring your bloody neck!” _ Fred mimicked, “You haven’t got the  _ guts _ .”

Fred made a strangled choking noise as Vyv’s hand shot across the car, wrapped around his throat and squeezed.

“Try me.” Vyv spat. He slammed Fred against the passenger window and let him go with a sneer of disgust. “He’d  _ hate _ you, you know. He’d think you were a stupid, childish,  _ sexist _ fascist. And for once he’d be bloody well right!”

“Yeah, well. I’d hate him, too! Him and his stupid lisp! Look, can we get out of this car park? Nothing’s happening, and I’m bored!”

“Fine by me.” Vyv grunted, “I’m gonna stop at the shop and get something to eat. That alright with you,  _ your majesty _ ?”

“Not really, no!” Fred crossed his arms and sunk into a sulk. Vyv looked away for a minute to reverse out of the parking space, but when he finally shot a glance in the direction of his imaginary friend, he saw that Fred was suddenly dressed in a crown and cloak, and that his sullen scowl had been replaced with a smug little smirk.

“Very  _ funny _ .” 

“Who’s laughing?”

“Not me.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.” Fred groaned, “Were you  _ always _ this dull? Even when you were a kid? I bet you were. A big dull kid in ugly boots with lots and lots of zits! Where’s your sense of humour, Snotface?”

_ Where’s your sense of humour, Vyv? _

“Six feet under.” Vyvyan replied, “With him. Dead.”

Mercifully, it seemed Fred did have  _ some _ boundaries. He put his feet back up on the dashboard and looked out of the window. Vyv shook his head, relieved to have a bit of peace and quiet. The drive to the shop was a relatively short one, and the drive home shorter still. Chips from the corner store, some carrots from SPG. But to Vyvyan it felt like an eternity; an agonising twenty minutes of keeping his hands glued firmly to the wheel, and refusing to let one of them come to rest on Fred’s knee the way it used to rest on Rick’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Fred. Can you like, NOT put your foot in it for five minutes??


	7. Murder in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! Just a short chapter. Updates might be a bit slow from now on - this story has become MASSIVE so...bear with me <3

_ “Come on, Vyv. You have to pick something.” Neil said with a sigh. From his seat at the kitchen table, he tried to entice the punk with a pamphlet on cremation services. Vyvyan batted it away with the back of his hand and went back to resting his forehead on the table. There was a bit of graffiti there, scratched into the wood. Rick Woz Here. He certainly was.  _ Was _. That was the key word, wasn’t it? Here yesterday, gone today. And Vyv, left behind. _

_ “It doesn’t matter.” He groaned. From the other side of the table, Mike cleared his throat. _

_ “Perfectly correct, Vyv. So pick.” _

_ “You pick! Set it on fire, stick it in the ground, chuck it in the bloody tip for all I care! He’s dead, Mike. He’s not here anymore. And the block of skin they’ve got down at the morgue isn’t him, because he’s dead! He’s dead. It’s just...meat. It’s not alive. It doesn’t matter.” _

_ Neil put his hand on Vyv’s shoulder and turned his attention to Mike. _

_ “...I think, like. Rick probably would’ve wanted to be buried, right? Returned to the earth?” _

_ “Well, we don’t know  _ what _ he would have wanted, do we Neil? We don’t have any bloody idea! Rick probably didn’t even know what he would have wanted, because he didn’t exactly plan on dying at the age of twenty-bloody-two!” _

_ “Alright, alright. Much like the proverbial one-legged dog, this is going nowhere fast.” _

_ “No, Michael. Much like the proverbial caved-in Poet, this is going nowhere fast!” _

_ “Vyv-” _

_ “Shut up! Just shut up! I told you it didn’t matter and I meant it. If you wanna return him to the bloody earth and nab yourself some good karma, fine! But let’s not get all poofy and sappy and pretend it’s in his best interest. None of this is in his best bloody interest! He’s. Dead.” _

_ “...We know, Vyv.” _

_ “Good. Then you can all shut up and leave me alone. I’ve got a headache.”  _

*

“Vyv’yan!” Fred hissed. His voice cut through the dark bedroom and bounced off the walls, but the punk didn’t even stir. He’d taken enough sleeping pills to tranquilise a cow - which meant he’d sleep reasonably well for about three hours or so. “ _ Vyv’yan! Wake up! _ ”

“Umph...piss off.” Vyv grunted. He grabbed hold of SPG and clutched him to his chest like a stuffed animal.

“Vyv’yan! Get  _ up _ ! I’m bored! We’re going to play a game!”

“ _ Ugh, _ Rick! It’s too early for games. Go back to sleep you daft sod.”

Fred jumped onto the punk’s side of the bed and smacked Vyvyan across the face, which did a bloody good job of waking him up with a start - sleeping pills or no.

“Christ, Rick! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!” Vyv sat up, still clutching SPG, and was greeted by an overly enthusiastic Fred. He was dressed in a bright green and yellow striped jumper, dark pants and - alarmingly - was wielding a leather glove with knives attached to the fingers. Vyvyan recognised the get-up immediately. Who wouldn’t?

_ ‘ _ _ Vyvyan! Why can’t we go and see a nice film for once? One with romance and world peace, and pretty girlies taking their tops off?!’ _

_ ‘It  _ was _ a nice film, poof! What’s not nice about a homicidal child murderer with knives for fingers slashing up helpless teenagers in their dreams? And besides, there were lots of pretty girlies taking their tops off!’ _

_ ‘Yes, but only when their stomachs were cut open!’ _

“Oh, it’s you.” Vyv sighed. Somehow, waking up to Fred instead of Rick was worse than waking up alone. “What do you want?”

“To play a game!”

“What game?”

“Murder in the dark,  _ obviously _ ! What else?” 

“You can’t play murder in the dark with only two people.” Vyv said, even though in his college days, he’d played it countless times with only one. 

“Course you can!” Fred scoffed, “Look, you be the murderer first, alright? I’ll run and hide!”

“Do you  _ know _ how many imaginary friends I’ve killed playing murder in the dark?” Vyv replied.

“No. Billions? Trillions?”

“One hundred and two.” Vyv yawned, “Now bugger off and let me sleep.”

“One hundred and two?! Ha! That’s  _ nothing! _ Come on then, put your money where your mouth is!” Fred teleported out of the room, leaving Vyv to stew on what had happened. He dropped SPG and let him crawl back under the covers before getting up and pulling on his ( _ Rick’s _ ) pajama pants. This had gone on long enough.

So the bastard wanted to play murder in the dark? Wanted to play a  _ game _ , did he? Fine. Fine! He’d play the bloody game. This had gone on long enough, anyway. It was time to kick Fred to the bloody curb.

“Right. Where are you, you bastard?”

The cellar. Obviously. It  _ had _ to be the cellar. When the house had been a nicer place to live, full of life and laughter, Rick’s hiding places were predictable at best. Every game of hide and seek, murder in the dark, blind man’s buff, or even chasey  _ always _ somehow managed to culminate in the bloody cellar. He stomped down two flights of stairs and into the mildew riddled basement without hesitation. Not easy to do in the pitch darkness, but that could hardly be helped - it  _ was _ murder in the dark, after all. 

“Are you in here, prick?!” Vyv called. No response. He sidestepped an old mattress, tripped over a broken vacuum cleaner, and nearly broke his neck on what felt like a roller skate with only two wheels. He stumbled, fell, put his hands out to break his fall and…

And his hand landed directly on the handle of something Vyvyan had long forgotten. A pickaxe. 

“...We were digging for oil in the basement.” He muttered. 

“Given up already, Snotface?! You’re too easy!” The voice came from somewhere back towards the door, faint but clear enough. Vyv grabbed the pickaxe and couldn’t help but grin at the familiar weight in his hands. He felt something stir inside his chest - something he hadn’t felt in years. Excitement, anticipation. This was...fun. He was having fun. He was chasing Rick through the share house, teleported back in time to the age of eighteen. Girly squeals from the people’s poet, morose grumbles from the household hippie as they rushed past him on the stairs. Games of cat and mouse that could while away the afternoon, or even stretch out long enough to pass the day away. A constant, ever present feeling of joy, happiness, purpose, lodged deep inside his heart. He hadn’t felt  _ happiness _ in years. He wasn’t sure he could remember what it felt like. But the soft, persistent fluttering inside his ribcage felt oddly similar.

“...Oh, you’re in it now, bastard!” Vyv tore back up the stairs and into the entranceway, but Fred was already halfway up the stairs to the second floor and cackling madly. The punk made a wide swipe with the pickaxe, missed, lodged it in the wall. He freed it quickly, but Fred took the advantage. He kept going, up to Mike’s old room, and ran  _ smack _ into the closed door. In the time it took Fred to recover from the impact, Vyvyan had closed the distance between them, and ran straight into the back of him. They tumbled through the door, rolled, landed near the far wall. Fred was on his back, pinned by the weight of the punk on top of him. The pickaxe was stuck in the floor - mere inches from Fred’s skull. 

“Ah ha ha!” Vyv yelled, “Murder in the dark! I win!” The persistent flutter in Vyv's chest only strengthened, and he had to resist the urge to bend down and press their lips together. 

It was impossible to see each other in the pitch blackness of the room, but with the help of a bit of light from Mike’s window, Fred could just make out the outline of Vyv’s face. The stars on his forehead, the ring in his nose. The slight upturn of his lips as his face contorted into a triumphant sneer. He could...remember something. Something…

_ ‘Vyvyan! You utter bastard! Ha, missed both my legs! I’ve been waiting two hours for this - it’s a revolution! Blood runs! Flags wave! Shame about Cliff Richard - anyone here like the Human League? I shall write to the lead singer of Echo and the Bunnymen! Vyvyan? Yeah, come one everyone! Let all your hairs out! Do whatever you want! Honestly, Vyvyan, have you been listening to a word I've said? Will you both please try and grow up and pay attention? It's my story, it's bloody amusing...Honestly, I don't know why I bother, sometimes! Vyvyan! Vyvyan, I love -’ _

Fred shuddered, turned his head to the side, and vomited an alarming amount of green liquid onto the floorboards. Suddenly, the room felt like it was spinning. His temperature was through the roof and he could barely speak for the searing pain in his head. It was as if he was being split in two. 

“...Fred? You alright?” Vyv backed off, gave his imaginary friend some much-needed space. 

“Fine.” Fred choked, “Fine. Course I’m fine. I’m Drop Dead Fre -”

And that was when  _ Drop Dead Fred _ passed out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Fred. What the bloody hell's happening to you?!


	8. The Official Complaints Department for Imaginary Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! This chapter took me aaaaaages to get done and it's basically just a massive info dump, so...sorry. hope you enjoy it though :))

_ “What about this one?” Rick passed the newspaper across the table to Vyvyan and tapped his finger on a flat listing towards the centre of the page. Vyv paused to get his glasses out, read the listing, shook his head. _

_ “Too expensive. And it says no pets.” _

_ “We could afford it once I get my trust fund.” Rick pointed out, “And Special Patrol Group hardly counts as a pet, really. More of a...lodger.” _

_ “Aye, and not by choice, either.” SPG muttered from his cage. _

_ “Rick, you don’t get your trust fund for another three years! And SPG’s a bloody hamster. No landlord this side of London’s going to see a stupid, fat little hamster as anything other than a pet!” _

_ “Oi, who’re ye callin’ stupid, ugly?” _

_ “What about the listing under that one, then? The little terraced house with the garden?” _

_ “That’s not a rental, poof.” _

_ “We could get a mortgage.” _

_ “Oh yeah? And who’ll foot the bill for that one, then? Me, I spose.” _

_ “Just until I get my trust fund!” Rick reiterated, “Or...or I could get a job!” _

_ “A job. Doing what? Sitting round looking poofy?” _

_ “Well, the lad does ‘ave a knack for it.” SPG pointed out. The People’s Poet rolled his eyes.  _

_ “Well you’d better give it some thought. Honestly, all this house hunting’s driving me potty! This one’s too big, this one’s too small, too expensive, no blimmin’ pets! Where are we going to  _ live _ Vyvyan?! There’s no way Mr Balowski’ll let us stay here after we graduate - not when he can replace us with more students!” Rick stood up to put the kettle on and Vyv caught his wrist to bring him closer.  _

_ “I’ll sort it.” The punk said, and kissed the palm of Rick’s hand. Rick shook his head and stuck out his pinky finger, which Vyv reluctantly linked with his own. _

_ “Promise you’ll sort it out?” Rick asked.  _

_ “I said I would, didn’t I? Stop worrying your girly little head. We’ll be out of here by Christmas. Promise.” _

*

When Drop Dead Fred wake up from his little...moment, he didn’t wake up as Fred. He woke up on Rick’s side of the bed, on Rick’s pillow, under Rick’s sheets. He groaned and pulled the covers up to his chin, relishing in the warmth and in the persistent pressure against his arm. Vyvyan was asleep next to him, lying on his shoulder with his side pressed against Fred’s. He’d taken another generous helping of sleeping pills upon determining that Fred wasn’t in serious medical danger, and was snoring softly against the pillow. Fred rolled onto his side and put an arm around Vyv’s back, which wasn’t particularly comfortable but he relished the contact. Cliff, this was nice. It never  _ stopped _ being nice. He’d sometimes worried that one or both of them might one day get sick of it, but if anything it seemed to get better every time. Curling up in bed with Vyvyan had to be his absolute  _ favourite _ thing to do, especially when it was cold out and the bed was so blimmin’ warm. He ought to write a poem about it. He’d written poems about Vyvyan before of course, but none of them specifically captured the sheer  _ joy _ that came with lying beside him. Or, more accurately, on top of him. And when was the last time he wrote a poem about Vyvyan, anyway? Must’ve been a while. How did that old one go?

_ Orchids are white _

_ Blue ones are rare _

_ Orange peels are orange, _

_ And so is your hair. _

Yes, that was it. When  _ did _ he write that? Long time ago. Five, six years? It was only a few days before -

Fred sat up with a wail. One hand went up to the left side of his face, expecting to find nothing but a bloodied, caved in hole. The other went to his chest as he gasped for air, struggling to comprehend how he could possibly be here, in bed with Vyvyan, when as far as he was aware he was supposed to be -

_ Dead. Dead. You died. You were bleeding all over the place and Vyvyan was holding you up and you wanted to talk but you couldn’t, and Vyv just kept looking at you and looking at you and asking you to say something and - _

“No.” Fred shuddered, “No. Rick’s dead. Rick. I’m not Rick. I’m  _ Fred _ . Drop Dead Fred. Drop Dead Fred, Drop Dead Fred,  _ Drop Dead bloody ruddy buggering Fred _ !”

This couldn’t go on. It was ridiculous! It was interfering with his job! Worse still, it was starting to scare him. He knew they’d warned him about Patient Zero, but honestly, this was too much. He wasn’t prepared for this! Not trained. Someone should have told him! Someone…

Twee and Twid. They’d know. They could explain. He could request a reassignment, surrender his spotless record, or at the very least, get some sort of advice. Was he strong enough to teleport back to the DIF? He felt pretty bloody foggy. Well, he’d have to try, wouldn’t he?

He took one last look at Vyvyan, shut his eyes, and jumped. 

The landing, as always, was soft. 

“Fred! You’re still alive? How  _ wonderful _ !” Tweedle clapped his hands together as Fred got his bearings. He’d made the distance, anyway. That was a good start. Sat in a nice, plush chair in front of Tweedle’s desk, he was already starting to feel better. Twiddle got up from the other side of the room and pulled his chair over to sit next to his brother, regarding Fred with a warm (and very relieved) smile. 

“Tea?” Tweedle asked.

“Er, no. Fred.” Fred clarified, “Look, I came to ask about Patient Zero.”

“Ah, yes. How  _ is _ your charge going, Fred? I must say, I’m very impressed. You’ve already outlasted all previous IF’s assigned to this particular case. Patient Zero must have taken a real liking to you.” Tweedle smiled. 

“He’s...fine. Not too much trouble.” 

“ _ Really? _ You haven’t had any difficulties at all?” Tweedle threw a smug glance in his brother’s direction, “How very interesting.”

“Well, there is one problem -” Fred replied. Twiddle brightened immediately.

“I knew it! I  _ knew _ it! The boy’s not safe. Don’t you worry Fred, we’ll reassign you immediately before you come to any more harm. If you need some sort of counseling service -”

“No, no! It’s nothing to do with Vyv’yan! He’s great! Better than great! We have  _ loads _ of fun! Loads! The problem...well. The problem is...me.”

“Interesting.” Twiddle quirked an eyebrow, “Kindly enlighten us.”

“Well, Vyv’yan, he...had a boyfriend. Rick. Who died, right? And sometimes...sometimes I sort of feel like...I dunno! Like I  _ am _ Rick, or something. Sometimes I say things or...or do things and...it’s me, but it’s...not me. It’s him! I think...quite honestly, I think you’d better get someone from head office down here immediately, because I’m  _ obviously _ being possessed! And last time I checked, that violates  _ all _ Imaginary Friend clauses, so -”

“ _ Fascinating _ .” Tweedle muttered, “He’s actually  _ becoming _ Rick over time! Remarkable! Isn’t that remarkable, Twid?”

“Concerning, more like. This is  _ exactly _ why we have rules, Twee! Assigning Drop Dead Fred to Patient Zero breaks all contractual regulations! I  _ knew _ it wouldn’t end well! This is going to be an absolute PR nightmare. They’ll have our jobs for this, you know!” Twiddle buried his face in his hands with a groan.

“Calm down _ , _ Twid. You heard Fred. He and the Basterd boy are getting along swimmingly-”

“But at what cost! You heard him! He’s already starting to remember!”

“Hang on, remember what?” Fred asked. 

“Well, there’s nothing else for it. We’ll just have to  _ inform _ Fred of the situation.” Tweedle smiled and leaned back in his chair, convinced that he’d come up with the ideal solution.

“Are you mad?! DIF guidelines clearly state -”

“That no imaginary friend should ever be informed of their past lives, lest it impair their ability to be devoted caregivers to their charges.  _ I know _ . But DIF guidelines  _ also _ state that no imaginary friend should ever be assigned to someone they knew when they were alive, lest it stunt the psychological development of the charge! And we’ve already broken  _ that _ rule, haven’t we? What’s one more?”

“That is  _ entirely _ different. Lord knows Basterd’s psychological development was never going to be anymore stunted than it already is!”

“Oi!” Fred snapped. Twiddle ignored the outburst, but Tweedle made a note of it with interest. 

“- But informing Fred of the truth could severely traumatise him! He’s no good to anyone if he’s shell shocked - least of all Basterd. And it still poses the issue of emotional sentiment preventing him from prioritising the needs of his charge.”

“Look, can someone just tell me what the bloody hell’s going on!”

“Certainly, Fred. Twiddle, shut your mouth. If this goes belly up, I’ll take the fall. It’s my project - I don’t mind.”

“Fine! I wash my hands of this, but don’t let that stop you. Goodness knows you never do.” Twiddle mimed zipping his mouth shut while Fred got a bit more comfortable in his chair, tucking his legs underneath him and resting his head in his hands. 

“Fred, where do you think imaginary friends  _ come from _ ?” Tweedle asked.

“Eugh! Oh, no. This isn’t the birds and the bees talk, is it? I don’t want to know about the pigeons!” Fred turned up his nose in disgust. 

“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s...well. I suppose it’s much simpler than that, really. The fact is, imaginary friends are...well. Dead.”

“...Dead?”

“Quite dead, yes.” Twiddle replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“...I’m dead.”

“We’re  _ all _ dead, Fred.” Tweedle informed him, “And we  _ all _ had past lives. Why, Twid and I were very successful business-men before we were involved in a disastrous North African plane crash at a conference.”

“I knew we should have taken the coach…”

“Shut  _ up _ , Twid! I didn’t hold you at gunpoint, you know. If you’d wanted to take a fifteen mile bus ride in the blazing heat -”

“Twee, you’re digressing.” Twiddle admonished. 

“Yes, can we get back to me, please?  _ I’m _ the one having a crisis here!” 

“Yes, yes. Look, the point  _ is _ , every imaginary friend - including you - used to have a life on earth. Velcro Head was a barrister in the late 1800s. Namby Pamby ran a bakery in the 50’s! Even the Dangerous Brothers used to be entertainers-”

“When they weren’t too busy being alcoholic  _ babysitters _ .” Twiddle muttered.

“What about me? What did I used to be?” Fred asked, leaning forward in his seat with obvious excitement. Twee and Twid looked at each other. Twid shook his head - one final warning. One last chance. Tweedle carried on anyway.

Tweedle paused, smacked his lips. He looked around the room as he tried to find the words, “You...were a student. At university.” 

“...Student? But…” Fred shook his head, “Alright, alright. So I’m dead. This is what happens to  _ everyone _ when they die, is it?”

“Ah. Well, no. This is what happens to a very small percentage of... _ unclassifiable _ individuals, who for one reason or another don’t technically fit on either side of the afterlife.” Tweedle raised his eyebrows and tried to gauge Fred’s level of understanding. He received only a blank stare.

“People who can’t go to heaven or hell.” Twiddle sighed, “Honestly. It’s like philosophising with a five-year-old.”

“Oh!” Fred nodded with sudden comprehension, “Erm...hang on. Why couldn’t I get into heaven? And what does  _ any _ of this have to do with all the weird things happening with Vyv’yan?!”

“Uncanny.” Twiddle muttered, “Both of those questions have an  _ identical _ answer. Very perceptive of you, Fred.”

“Unfortunately, Patient Zero  _ is _ the problem.” Tweedle agreed, “And how do you solve a problem like Vyvyan Basterd?”

“A mad psychopath, by anyone’s standards. He’s killed thousands of imaginary friends, but no real people. Made no real effort to help anyone in any way for the first few years of his life, and then went onto become a doctor and devote the rest of it to making people better. He’s got a knack for violence, but has been known to stand up for people in need. By all accounts, Fred, he’s a complete contradiction at every possible point. Aside from being the greatest blemish in the history of the DIF, the boy’s entirely unclassifiable. Neither side wants a bar of him!”

“So?” Fred shrugged, “Still doesn’t explain why I keep going all... _ weird _ .”

“We’re getting to that.” Tweedle replied, “There’s one last anomaly in Patient Zero’s case, Fred. Perhaps the most perplexing one of all. Against all the odds, Vyvyan Basterd’s got a soulmate. And that is a  _ very _ rare anomaly indeed.”

“Most people have at least half a dozen people they could potentially spend the rest of their lives with. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. Sometimes they find one of these people and forge a long term bond, sometimes the bond breaks, and sometimes people just...elect to stay on their own. But  _ soulmates _ -” Twiddle was cut off rather abruptly as Tweedle dipped in to take his place, and Fred was left turning his head from one to the other like a spectator in a bizarre tennis match. 

“Soulmates, for one reason or another, simply  _ do not fit _ with anybody else. A few teams have actually run tests on this in other departments. You can place soulmates on opposite ends of the world to one another, surround them with likeminded people, throw every possible obstacle at them, and not only will they  _ not _ form a bond with anyone else, they will eventually gravitate towards each other.” Tweedle smiled, “It’s absolutely  _ remarkable!  _ There’s still no real explanation for it. Just another little quirk to entertain the powers that be, I suppose.”

“But aside from being a fascinating ethereal phenomenon,” Twiddle continued, “It  _ does _ pose some issues when it comes to the classification of deceased souls. Because unless you want the entirety of the afterlife ripped open, soulmates absolutely  _ must _ end up in the same place.”

“Not normally an issue. Unless, of course, we’re talking about Vyvyan Basterd and Rick Pratt.”

“Why? Where’d Rick go?”

“That’s just it. They couldn’t  _ send _ Rick anywhere. Not until they’d determined where Vyvyan would be placed. And even  _ that _ posed its own set of issues. On his own merits, Rick was perfectly capable of getting into heaven. The only  _ real _ blemish on his record was the alleged murder of a hippie in 1984. Easily overlooked - it was only a  _ hippie _ , after all. And the Pye boy was, if memory serves, entirely unharmed by the incident. Blemish absolved. So, Rick goes to heaven. But...what if Vyvyan goes to hell?”

“Interdimensional chaos.” Twiddle shook his head, “The gravitational pull would rip the universe to shreds.”

“Oi, hold on a minute! Wouldn’t one of em’ being on earth and the other one being stuck over here start ripping the universe to shreds?”

Twiddle smiled, rested his head in his hands. “Well, yes and no. Soulmates tend to die off relatively close together. Frankly, I’m surprised Basterd’s lasted this long. And the average human lifetime is relatively short to begin with. Not enough time to do any real damage. But that’s hardly the point. The point is, Vyvyan Basterd has always been somewhat of a question mark. Largely unclassifiable which, by extension, makes Rick  _ also _ largely unclassifiable. Sending Pratt to hell would mean writing Vyvyan off as a lost cause, and sending him to heaven ran the risk of guaranteed entry for a potential psychopath. Either way, not ideal.”

“That’s where the DIF steps in.” Tweedle replied, “We act as a kind of...last resort system for purgatorial refugees. Souls that aren’t necessarily good enough for heaven, bad enough for hell, or ones who have simply slipped through the cracks of either categorisation via some sort of loophole - say, a suicide - have a chance to redeem themselves as Imaginary Friends. Fifty charges tends to be the going rate - we assess on a case by case basis. And if Vyvyan Basterd had been the first to go, he would have been put right to work. But since Rick and Vyvyan  _ must _ end up in the same place, we decided some time could be spared and paperwork avoided by having Rick serve the time in his stead.” 

“Oh!” Fred nodded, “ _ That’s _ why strange things are happening! Rick’s trying to gravitate back to Vyv’yan,  _ through  _ me! Because I’m an imaginary friend, and he’s  _ my _ charge. Right, come on then. Who used to be Rick, then? Oh, don’t tell me it was one of the poor sods Vyv’yan sent to the scrap pile!”

“...No, Fred. Rick isn’t trying to get back to Vyvyan through you.”

“...Then what the bloody hell’s happening?!”

Tweedle sighed, “Do you remember  _ all _ of your charges, Fred?”

“Course!” Fred snorted, “Every single one.”

“ _ Really _ ? Then would you be so kind as to tell me how many of them have taken place in or around London?”

“Oh, erm...I dunno.” Fred frowned, “A few. But what about Lizibeth? She was from the states! Nat, too!”

“Elizabeth Cronin’s father was British, Fred. Do you know how many times he attempted to uproot the family and return to his native soil? We had to come up with a great deal of obstacles to try and eliminate  _ that _ possibility. Natalie Bunce was a step in the right direction, certainly - though admittedly an oversight on our part. We hadn’t considered the possibility that Bunce and Cronin would form such ties. Kudos to you for prioritising the current charge instead of the former, Fred.”

Fred smiled in spite of himself, preening at the compliment. 

“But concerns  _ were _ raised towards the end of your placement, when Elizabeth and Mickey Bunce discussed emigration to Manchester with you and Natalie in tow. Still, with only one charge left in your sentence, assessment deadlines looming, and the ever present issue regarding Patient Zero, we thought-”

“ _ You _ .” Twiddle snapped, “ _ You _ thought. I had nothing to do with it!”

“ _ I _ thought it might be worth tempting fate. If you were so intent on reuniting with Vyvyan Basterd, then why fight it? And if the worst had happened, and your soul ceased to exist, well...the afterlife department could simply assign Vyvyan to hell without the added baggage.”

“...Hang on.” Fred said.

“Oh, look at that. You can practically  _ see _ the cogs turning. I think he might  _ finally _ be catching on, Twee.” 

“I think you might be right.”

“...Are you saying...are you saying I’m...Rick?” 

“Bravo! Well done, Fred. I knew you’d get there in the end.” 

“...But… but I’m Fred! I’m Drop Dead Fred! And - hang on, hang on. Rick only died a few years ago!”

“Late 1986.” Tweedle nodded, “Hit by a lorry. Nasty way to go.”

"That can’t be right! I’ve been an imaginary friend for centuries! What about all the charges I had during the depression?! Sixteenth century France! The industrial revolution! Elizabeth ruddy Cronin circa 1972! And now you’re telling me I’ve only been dead six years?!”

“...Ah.” Twiddle said, “Special allowances had to be made for your case, Fred. Rules were bent. Time...well. Time was  _ also _ bent.”

“We figured the best way to keep you away from Basterd - at least on a short term basis - was to constantly send you backwards in time.”

“It worked to our benefit, really. Lord knows we’re understaffed. With you playing the long game we were able to catch up on centuries worth of overlooked potential charges. And since we were more or less waiting for Patient Zero to die, the length of your service was hardly an issue. You two could carry out the end of the sentence as a double act, if need be. It would be unusual, certainly, but not at all unheard of.” 

“Of course, we hadn’t made allowances for Vyvyan’s longevity, or for your remarkable skill level. Forty nine charges in only six years isn’t just _ impressive _ , Fred. It’s entirely unheard of!”

Fred opened his mouth, but Twiddle beat him to the punch. 

“But again, you continued to draw yourselves back to one another. Every charge we paired you with, no matter how far back, seemed hellbent on reuniting you. Some would befriend or marry into the Basterd line in some way, others would simply draw back to London. And although we did our best, it couldn’t be helped.” He shrugged. 

“...I’m Rick.” Fred muttered. The name sounded odd in his mouth. Didn’t quite gel. He put one hand to the side of his face and cringed. A dull ache was starting to form at his left temple, spreading down his forehead and across his jaw. He had a song stuck in his head, but he was almost  _ certain _ he’d never heard it before. 

_ You spurn my natural emotions, you make me feel I'm dirt and I'm hurt _ _. _

“Good grief. Are we  _ still _ on that?” Twiddle rolled his eyes, but Tweedle looked genuinely concerned. He put one hand on the desk and leaned across it to better assess Fred’s condition.

“Fred,” He said gently, “You’ve done us a great service over the years, and lord knows we’re incredibly grateful. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve served your sentence. In a much faster time period than we might have expected, certainly, but I’ll gladly stand before any committee and testify you’ve gone above and beyond. I really can’t stress how much you’ve done for us - from going back in time and picking up the slack, to your expert handling of the Cronin-Incident, and even your remarkable progress with Patient Zero. You’ve done us a real service. Twid and I are very grateful.”

_ And if I start a commotion, I run the risk of losing you and that's worse. _

“Certainly, certainly.” Twiddle replied, “Particularly with regards to Cronin.”

“Fred, if you want us to switch you to a different charge, or even for us to sign off your sentence altogether, we’d be more than happy to do so. You could progress to the afterlife and wait for Vyvyan there, if you’d like.”

“In the air-conditioned comfort of heaven’s waiting room, of course.” Twiddle added. 

Fred looked at them - first one, then the other. Then he looked through them, back at the wall. Had the room started to spin? Certainly felt like it. He gripped the arms of the chair and waited to see if it would stop, or if he would be forced to endure it until he was sick all over himself for the second time in a twenty four hour period.

_ Ever fallen in love with someone, ever fallen in love, in love with someone, ever fallen in love - _

“Fred? Are you still with us?”

_ Ever fallen in love with someone,  _ _ You shouldn't have fallen in love with? _

“Why don’t I remember?”

“Evidence would suggest that you  _ do _ , Fred. At least from time to time. You wanted to know why you keep having sudden lapses. Why it feels like you’re being possessed. Well, now you know.”

“But I don’t  _ remember! _ Not properly! They’re not my memories. They’re someone else’s.”

“IFs aren’t permitted to remember their past lives, Fred. It would create a conflict of interest! How could any of you be expected to prioritise your charges if you were too busy mulling over your existence? Rest assured, your memories will return when you progress to the afterlife.”

“No.” Fred muttered. The ache in his head was getting progressively worse, as were the room’s violent rotations. 

“They will, Fred. It might not feel like it now, but -”

“No,  _ Rick _ ’ _ s _ memories’ll come back. Where does that leave  _ me _ ? Because as far as I can tell we’re still two different people, even if we do share a bloody soul!” 

“...You are... _ different _ from when you were Rick, certainly. But-”

“Answer me this, then. Has  _ any _ imaginary friend ever stayed  _ fun _ after they finished their sentence? Hmm? Or did they all go back to being old and boring and  _ human _ ?”

“...Most of them were far more...cheerful, following their sentence.” Tweedle replied.

“...But relatively more subdued.” Twiddle sighed, “Honestly, Fred. If you’re asking us how a person’s IF persona coexists with their human selves, we’re really the wrong people to give council.”

“We never  _ had _ our memories taken away to begin with. We’re only admin, after all.” Tweedle waved a hand dismissively, “Listen, that hardly matters now. What do you want to do, Fred? If your memories are what’s concerning you, we’d be happy to sign you off. We could have you shifted to the Afterlife Department for processing by this afternoon. Plenty of time to say your goodbyes to Vyvyan.”

“No.” Fred shook his head.

“We’ll set up another charge, then?” Twiddle asked, “Something nice and simple?”

“...I need to go home. To Vyv’yan. He...he needs me.”

“As you like it, Fred. But what happens when your services are no longer required? There were talks of you wanting to extend your time in our department. We’d be happy to arrange it, if it was still of interest to you.”

“...I don’t know. I don’t - can I go home now, please? I need to go home.”

“Give it some thought.” Tweedle smiled sympathetically, “Off you go then, Fred. Best of luck to you.”

“...Thank you.” Fred vanished from his chair rather slowly, without his usual burst of excited energy. It was more of a gentle fade than an active disappearing act. Twiddle sighed and retreated back to his desk while Tweedle shuffled some paperwork to one side. 

“I knew this wouldn’t end well.” Twiddle muttered. He seemed to have aged ten years in ten minutes.

“I don’t know about that, Twid.” Tweedle replied, “Personally, I think Fred’s going to be just fine.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Simple. He called Vyvyan’s house  _ home _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...now Fred knows the truth. But how's he going to handle the news, exactly?


	9. Wired for Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Sorry if Fred seems a bit out of character in this chapter - he's going through a bit of a crisis. But I hope all the Rivyan fluff adequately tugs at your heartstrings!

_“Rick, I swear to god, if you play that cassette one more bloody time, I’m gonna bash your girly little brains in!”_

_Rick looked up from the notebook he was frantically scrawling a particularly riveting bit of free verse into. He offered only the briefest of glances to the punk before returning to his work, far too busy to argue. Thanks to the magic of Rick’s very fancy new tape player, side B of “Party Tracks - Volume 1” started up automatically. The poet stopped to stretch, his legs gently pushing his chair back from the desk, then got back to work to the tune of Cool for Cats. Vyv let out an anguished groan, threw his book at the wall, and buried his face in the pillow._

_“Not again! Christ. Don’t you have anything else?”_

_“I don’t need anything else, Vyvyan! This happens to be an excellent mixtape! The best there ever was! I should know - I’m the one who blimmin’ made it.”_

_“And I’m the one who has to listen to it all hours of the fucking day!”_

_“Language, Vyvyan.”_

_“Fuck off. Put another tape on, for Christ’s sake.”_

_“I haven’t got another tape! I told you - I don’t need one. Cliff Richard, Tears for Fears, Culture Club, even Echo and the Bunnymen! What more could there possibly be? And before you start complaining, Vyvyan, may I just remind you that the inclusion of the Smiths was entirely for your benefit!”_

_“I don’t even like the bloody Smiths!” Vyv replied, “...And even if I did - which I don’t - you didn’t even put any of the dirty tracks on there! You’ve only got Meat is Murder, which is so horrendously girly and poofy it makes me want to vomit!”_

_“Well tough! It’s my player, and I’m not about to fork out money unnecessarily, just because you have no taste!”_

_“Hmph.” Vyv muttered. He shoved his head under the pillow to try and protect his ears. He loved Rick - more than anything, really. Certainly more than he was willing to admit. But listening to the same thirteen horrendous tracks over and over was surely bordering on torture. Rick got up from his desk, came over to the bed, and crawled on top of Vyvyan. He hooked his arms under the punk’s armpits, wrapped his legs around his waist, and kissed the back of his neck. That made the music a bit more bearable. A little. Not much._

_*_

_Rick was dosing on the sofa in the drawing-room when Vyv lobbed a cassette at his head. It came without warning, made a small dent in the back of his skull, and clattered noisily to the floor._

_“Argh! Vyvyan! What was that?!”_

_“It's a tape, brainless. What’s it look like?”_

_“What kind of tape?” Rick asked. He picked it up off the carpet and turned it over with interest._

_“Mixtape.” Vyv grunted. His voice sounded a bit off. Rick looked up to see that the punk was blushing ever so slightly. “...I erm...made it.”_

_“...Oh.” Rick frowned, “...You made me a mixtape?”_

_“No! Don’t be such a bloody girl! I made a mixtape, that’s all. If you want to listen to it, fine. But I’d rather hear that played a thousand times a day than the poofy shite you put on!”_

_“Right. Right, so...I’ll just...put it on now, then, shall I?”_

_“If you want. I don’t care.” Vyvyan shrugged, sneered, scratched at a well worn spot on the back of his neck. Rick took his boyfriend’s apprehension as a promising sign. He tore up to his room and put on the cassette with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than what was warranted - it only served to embarrass Vyvyan further._

_“Look, you’re making too much fuss out of this. It’s nothing special, really.”_

_You spurn my natural emotions, you make me feel I’m dirt and I’m hurt_

_“It’s just a few songs I thought...well. They don’t remind me of you exactly, but…”_

_And if I start a commotion, I run the risk of losing you, and that’s worse._

_Rick frowned, “Vyvyan, are these...punk love songs?”_

_Ever fallen in love in love with someone_

_Ever fallen in love in love with someone_

_Ever fallen in love_

_In love with someone you shouldn’t have fallen in love with?_

_“Erm...yeah?” Vyv leaned against the doorway to Rick’s room, still picking at the back of his neck, “Yeah, I um...I spose they are really. Look, it’s stupid. I’ll turn it off-“_

_He reached for the eject button on the cassette player, but Rick smacked his hand away._

_“Don’t you blimmin’ well dare!” Rick patted the spot on the floor beside him, “Come and listen with me?”_

_Vyv shrugged, “...Alright.”_

_*_

Fred rifled through the wardrobe in Vyvyan’s room, searching for something - anything - that might get him to remember something. Something he could connect to _himself_ rather than Rick. Something that registered as his memory, instead of triggering another bizarre moment of borderline demonic possession. He wasn’t having much luck. It wasn’t that he couldn’t find anything - it seemed everything Rick had ever come into contact with had been systematically filed and stored - but more that none of it seemed very familiar. In fact, a lot of it was only recognisable as Rick’s in the sense that he _knew_ it couldn’t possibly have been Vyvyan’s. Nothing felt like his, anyway. 

He pushed past a bag of torn, bloodied clothes and a shoebox full of poetry journals, came across a frilly dress that he decided didn’t bear thinking about, and was briefly sidetracked by an expansive collection of stripy socks. As far as _he_ was concerned, Rick seemed like the biggest girl around. Worse than Mickey Fartpants, even. Vyvyan had a thousand different shoeboxes precariously stacked on top of one another, and once Fred had exhausted all other avenues of discovery, he began to pick through them at random. 

One of them contained nothing but grotty little scraps of paper, each one marked with a vague, mind-numbing message. 

_Have a good day today!_

_Love you!_

_Good luck on your exams!_

_Don’t forget - drinks at the Kebab at 7!_

A memory _did_ spark for Fred then, but not the sort he was looking for. It reminded him of Lizzie after she started spending more time with Mickey and Nat, and how she used to leave little notes in Natalie’s lunchbox for school. Did...did Rick used to do the same thing for Vyvyan? Leave notes in his lunchbox before sending him off to college for the day?

Probably. It certainly seemed like a nauseatingly girly thing to do, and Rick was obviously a giant girl. But even if that _was_ the case...had Vyvyan really hung onto all of them? There had to be hundreds in there, maybe more, which meant Vyvan must’ve been collecting them months - possibly years - prior to Rick’s death. 

...What was it like to be loved that deeply? Fred couldn’t imagine it. He’d been liked, admired, adored, revered. He’d had charges that had loved him, sure. The way you loved a favourite toy or maybe an older brother. But this was entirely different. This was like nothing Fred had ever seen or heard of. 

“I used to have this.” Fred muttered, “This used to be my life.”

He put the box to one side and grabbed another, rather surprised that it was entirely empty apart from two dusty cassette tapes. _Party Tracks - Volume 1_ and one ominously entitled _Rick’s_. But despite its namesake, the latter tape looked more like the handwriting of Vyvyan Basterd than the people’s poet. Still, he thought he might have a little more success sparking his memory by listening to music than by rummaging through a dead man’s belongings. He pocketed the tapes and disappeared back downstairs, remembering that Vyvyan kept the old cassette player in the drawing-room, rather than its original spot on Rick’s dresser. 

Sat on the old couch with the volume down low, Fred listened to one tape and then the other, waiting patiently for something to happen. Nothing did. He could put names and lyrics to the songs that sometimes rattled around in his head, but other than that, it was like listening to it all for the very first time. Odd. No, more than odd - bloody frustrating! 

“Where are you, you bastard?” Fred muttered, “What, have you gone out to lunch?”

He threw himself back onto the couch with a frustrated sigh, caught his reflection in the blank TV screen. He tugged at one of the stupid little plaits at the back of his head with a grimace. Vyv said he and Rick looked almost bloody identical. Fred wouldn’t know - he hadn’t seen a single picture of the girly git thus far. Where _were_ all the pictures? They certainly weren’t in the wardrobe; Fred would have found them if they were. Had Vyvyan thrown them out? Burned them? Stuck them in storage, or perhaps left them with a friend? How could he possibly cling onto everything else Rick had ever so much as breathed on, and yet refused to keep a single picture of him around the bloody house? Where was the logic?!

He left the cassettes by the player, abandoned, and stomped back up to the bedroom. Part of him still couldn’t quite believe that he and Rick were the same person, really. It just didn’t make sense. But if he could see a photograph...make some kind of physical comparison? Perhaps something would start to come back to him. Maybe _seeing_ the other version of himself would be enough to bring it all back. He’d have to ask Vyv’yan. He’d know.

Vyvyan was still asleep, snoring softly, obviously unphased by the soft sounds of the cassette player downstairs. He was on his side, curled into the foetal position, that disgusting grotty hamster pressed against his chest. Even when he was asleep, he didn’t necessarily look peaceful. His brow furrowed into a deep frown, top lip curled in an anguished sneer. Occasionally he flinched or twitched, as if someone had made a move to strike him. Sometimes he whimpered like a child. 

“ _...Vyv’yan.”_ Fred whispered. He was reluctant to wake him fully - he knew he wouldn’t get answers that way. Fortunately, for once, fate seemed to be on his side.

“Piss off Rick.” Vyv grumbled. 

“ _Vyv’yan, where are all the photos?”_

“What bloody photos?”

“The photos of you and - the photos of us, Vyv. What have you done with them?”

“In my wallet.” Vyv groaned, “Now shut your mouth and let me sleep! I’ve got work in the morning!”

Vyvyan’s wallet was in the pocket of his jeans. Fred had no trouble finding it, but _extracting_ it was a different matter entirely. The stupid thing was at least ten times thicker than it should have been. The punk had obviously long since given up trying to get the clasp shut, electing to wrap a number of rubber bands around it instead, and the stitches on the pocket of his jeans were bursting with the strain. Fred wrestled with it for several minutes before finally managing to yank it free. Hopefully Vyvyan wouldn’t notice the new tear in the denim… 

Sure enough, there were photos. There were more photos than Fred could possibly have imagined. No wonder the thing wouldn’t close properly! Vyvyan had crammed every possible picture into the plastic sleeve inside his wallet - there must have been at least thirty. Probably more. And there was no rhyme, reason or order to them, either. All different shapes and sizes. Some of them were polaroids, some clearly shot with a cheap disposable, and others had obviously been pilfered from frames, scrapbooks and albums. A few were old, worn, fairly early - clearly taken before Vyvyan and Rick had become a proper couple. 

In one of them, Rick was sitting on the sofa with a wad of red kleenex pressed against his nose, looking thoroughly pissed off. Vyv had an arm around his shoulders, a massive grin on his face, and blood on his knuckles as he flipped the V’s to the camera. The date on the back said early 1982. Over ten years ago. He squinted to get a better look at this Rick bloke, but it was impossible to properly identify him behind all those bloody tissues. Vyv, however, looked tremendously young. He had a sizable cluster of pimples by the corner of his mouth, and the ring in his nose was noticeably absent. He also looked...well. He looked happy. Genuinely so. Not just a brave face or an obligatory smile, or even a surprised laugh - like the one he sometimes gave when Fred said something funny that caught him off guard. It was a look of real, unbridled contentment; one that carried itself through body language as well as expression. One that was glorified and magnified by the mad glint in his eyes. Fred could see why Rick must’ve fallen for him. He was a good looking bloke, pimples and all. But what Vyv saw in Rick was - at least as far as Fred was concerned - anyone’s guess. 

In the next picture - taken October 1983, if the inscription on the back was anything to go by - Rick was a little more visible, slightly recognisable. Well... _slightly_. He was, after all, dressed as Margret Thatcher, standing in the entranceway next to a long-haired hippie dressed as a carrot. In the background, blurry and almost out of frame, he could just make out Vyvyan coming down the stairs dressed as a dinosaur. Halloween then, he supposed. But Rick’s face still wasn’t easily identifiable - not under all that ridiculous makeup. 

Another picture, 1984. Once again Rick’s face was bloody indecipherable - Vyvyan’s hand was in the way. Whoever was taking all these photographs certainly had a knack for timing. They’d chosen to snap a picture at the exact instant Vyvyan had managed to put Rick’s head through the glass window in the drawing-room. 

But in the next picture, Fred hit paydirt. Late 1984. Looked like a new year’s eve party, actually. Vyvyan and Rick were both very clearly drunk, and some kind of fight appeared to have broken out behind them. But if Fred thought Vyvyan had looked happy in _any_ of the previous pictures, then he was very clearly mistaken. _This_ was what Vyvyan looked like when he was really, truly happy. He had one arm around Rick’s waist, his lips pressed against the poet’s cheek, and a bottle of babycham in his free hand. Never mind a spark in his eyes - the punk was practically _glowing_ . Rick was clinging onto Vyv’s jacket, a stupid grin plastered across his face, his hair mussed up and stinking out at bizarre angles. He had hickies all up and down his neck, and his shirt collar was torn. But it was his face Fred focused on. His _face_ . It was...they were bloody identical! Granted, Rick looked far younger than fred but...still. There was no _resemblance_ about it. No _“oh if you tilt your head slightly and squint they look vaguely similar”._ It was the same face. The exact same bloody face!

Fred gripped the dresser to prevent himself from keeling over, then sat down on the rug to try and get his breath. When he went back to flicking through the photographs he was considerably shaken, but had no intention of stopping. If he _was_ Rick (and all evidence thus far certainly seemed to suggest that he was) then he wanted to work out exactly who Rick was. Exactly who _he_ was before he died. There were pictures of him at protests. Pictures of him sunbathing in the back garden. Pictures of him and Vyv at the pub. He looked bloody ecstatic in almost all of them, and Vyv seemed to get even happier with every possible shot. He couldn’t believe how bloody in love they were. From somewhere towards the end of 1984, all the way through 85’ and into 86’, there wasn’t a single picture where they didn’t look absolutely rapt with one another. It was absolutely disgusting. _Sickening_. But he couldn’t look away.

It was even worse when he got to the polaroids. Something twigged with him then - briefly - some vague spark of a memory. But the more he tried to grasp it, the further away it got. All he really felt was a dull warmth in his chest. Some far away feeling of a bloody nice time. Vyvyan had snapped picture after picture of Rick asleep in bed. Messy hair, dirty sheets, and the people’s poet dressed in nothing but a pair of Y fronts. Much like the subject, the pictures were overexposed, and a little too bright. It had a sort of sordid feeling about it too, even though there was nothing inherently filthy about it. It just looked sort of...personal. As if he was somehow encroaching on an intimate moment. An intimate moment that he was, apparently, present for. His head hurt just thinking about it. 

In the next few shots Rick started to wake up, most likely disturbed by the bright flash of the camera, and the adoring smile that appeared on the poet’s face broke Fred’s heart. A few messy shots as the two of them fought over the camera, then a few snaps of Vyv in nothing but boxers, smiling in the early morning sun. Crooked shots of the both of them crammed into the frame together. 

And then Fred’s blood ran cold as he checked the date. November 1986. Almost exactly six years ago. Rick was dead before the end of 86’. Fred didn’t know much, but he knew that for certain. How much time had he had left in November? Days? Weeks? No more than a month. Probably less. He shuddered. How soon after his death had Rick turned into Fred, anyhow? 

Vyvyan rolled over and began to snore even louder; so loud the room began to shake. SPG let out a little grunt and snuggled deeper into the pillow. Fred put the photos back in Vyv’s wallet, put it back in the pocket of his jeans, and then hesitated. Vyvyan was on his back, one arm stretched across Rick’s side of the bed. 

“...I wish I could remember you.” Fred mumbled. Vyvyan barely stirred. It was with great reluctance that Fred returned to the bed. Lifted Vyv’s arm up, crawled underneath. The punk’s arm settled across his waist easily, as if it was _meant_ to be there. A hand came to rest on his hip bone, warm through the fabric of his clothes. He never would have imagined he could have gone to sleep with Vyvyan’s horrendous snoring going on in the background, but to his surprise it had an oddly soothing effect. Like being serenaded by a chainsaw. 

As he drifted off, another song started to circulate round the outer corners of his consciousness. Faintly at first, then gradually louder and more persistent as he drifted off to sleep. Annoyingly, it wasn’t one of the ones that had appeared on either of the cassettes. God only knew where he’d picked it up from, but he wished it would bugger off. It seemed to be making him cry. 

_The finest years I ever knew, were all the years I had with you_

_And I would give anything I own_

_I'd give up my life, my heart, my home_

_And I would give everything I own_

_Just to have you back again_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the song mentioned at the end is "Everything I Own" by Bread. I'm very convinced its one of the most romantic songs ever written, but where Fred picked it up from is really anyone's guess... or is it? I'm gonna go ahead and slap an angst warning on the next couple chapters right here, because we're going to be heading back into some very depressing territory. If you were hoping for a big happy ending...you might not find it here. Thanks for reading and kudosing and commenting, as always. I'd probably never update if there wasn't anyone giving me constant praise XD


	10. Don't Fear the Reaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello! Imma go ahead and slap a big ol' trigger warning on this chapter - pretty much anything that can go wrong does go wrong. Most importantly tho, we've got a bit of a suicide attempt. And just general sadness, grieving, reminiscing, etc. The title for this one is taken from the Blue Oyster Cult song of the same name (It's really more of a Neil track than a Rick or a Vyvyan, but there you go) Hope you enjoy and as always, thanks for reading!!

_ It never bloody rained when it was supposed to. That was one of the great injustices of life, as far as Vyvyan was concerned. The sky had absolutely no business being sunny on a day like this. And yet, here they were. Stood around a hole in the earth with the sun beating down on their backs, sweat on their foreheads and birds chirping overhead. Irony. One last laugh at the expense of the people’s poet.  _

_ Vyvyan looked at the gravestone with a blank expression. He was satisfied with what it said, but reluctant to admit that Neil had done a good job. Reluctant to admit that if it had been left up to him, Rick would have no grave at all. He stuck his hands in the pockets of the darkest pair of jeans he owned, looked up at the bright blue hue of the entirely cloudless sky, and waited for someone else to speak.  _

_ Mike and Neil stood on either side of him, SPG perched on his shoulder. They all wore black. Black jeans, black shirts, black jackets, in some cases actually going so far as to resemble the deceased. Out of respect, they’d all pinned at least one of Rick’s badges to their shirts. Neil was wearing about six. It was unusual to see any of them - except Mike, of course - dressed so well. They’d made a special trip to the laundrette for the occasion, and even forked over the money for that fancy conditioner. Vyvyan wasn’t entirely sure Rick would have appreciated the gesture, but he was too tired to object to anything Mike or Neil had planned. The funeral was more for their benefit than his or Rick’s by that point.  _

_ “Scrubbed up alright in the end.” Mike muttered, “Very nice inscription.” _

_ “...Is it okay, Vyv?” Neil asked. Vyvyan shrugged. _

_ “S’alright. Poof woulda liked the poem.” He paused, “Dunno that he woulda wanted his full name on the bloody thing.” _

_ “Oh.” Neil frowned, “Um...sorry.” _

_ “Woulda pissed him off, most likely.” Vyv continued, “So ta for that.” _

_ He put a hand on Neil’s shoulder, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything else. It  _ _ was _ _ a nice inscription. Rick would have loved it. Probably would have bragged to everyone about what a nice grave it was, and how much better it was than all the other graves. Vyvyan had hoped looking at it, seeing it all laid out, might have triggered something inside him. The next stage in the grieving process, perhaps. Or a realisation that the prick absolutely was dead, and wasn’t going to come strolling back from his morning classes at any minute. No such luck. Instead, he felt the same empty numbness he’d been experiencing since they called the time of death. A tear  _ _ did _ _ trickle down his face, but it didn’t quite feel connected to him, somehow. It felt separate from the situation at hand. He looked back at the gravestone and forced himself to read it, willing himself to feel something - anything! Anything at all. _

_ Frederick “Rick” Flashheart Pratt _

_ 1964 - 1986 _

_ “The People’s Poet”  _

_ The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;  _

_ Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;  _

_ Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;  _

_ For nothing now can ever come to any good. _

_ Fiercely missed by all who knew him.  _

_ Ha! That last part was a bloody laugh. There were only three people (and one hamster) present at this sorry excuse for a fucking funeral. Nobody from Rick’s family. No friends. Just two flatmates, a house pet, and the boyfriend who helped put him in the ground. Quite a fucking send-off.  _

_ “Would it be alright if I said something, Vyv?” Neil asked. _

_ “Spose.” Vyv replied as he lit a cigarette. Neil removed a crumpled ball of paper from his back pocket and cleared his throat. _

_ “Um...Rick and I didn’t always like...get along really well. I don’t actually think he liked me very much, and I didn’t really like him very much for a lot of the time that I knew him.” He paused, looking a little bit unsure of himself. Mike gave him a nudge to get him to continue, “Um...but there was this one time, right, where Vyvyan was out and Mike was busy, and it was just the two of us, and we like, ended up playing checkers in the drawing-room. I said something about digging a grave for myself in the back garden, and...and he asked me why I wanted to die so badly. I told him it was because everyone hated me. We talked about what it was like to like...be hated, because Rick said everyone hated him too. And he told me...he told me not everyone hated me. Because he didn’t. Not really, anyway. It’s still the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, and it was the only time I ever saw Rick be like, really serious about anything. So I guess maybe we did like each other after all. Rick...was my friend. I’m really glad I got to be his.” _

_ Neil smiled apologetically, then knelt down to dig a little hole in the earth. He left the piece of paper there, covered it up, and quietly said a little blessing to make sure Rick’s soul received some good karma. When it became apparent that Vyvyan was not yet ready to speak, Mike stepped up to say a few words of his own.  _

_ “Rick still owes me a fiver for that round of drinks at the kebab. Given the circumstances, I’ve decided to let bygones be bygones.” _

_ “That’s really very big of you, Mike.” Neil said. Mike nodded. _

_ “I know.” _

_ Vyvyan made a noise that was somewhere between a whine and a sigh, then knelt down to fiddle with the buttons on the shitty little second-hand tape player he’d bought specifically for the occasion. After a minute or two, music began to spurt out of the battered speakers with a burst of static. Roxy music; because it didn’t matter how sad of a bloody occasion it was - Vyv still couldn’t stomach Cliff fucking Richard.  _

_ Lift up your feet and put them on the ground _

_ You used to walk upon, when you were young _

_ Lift up your feet and put them on the ground _

_ The hills were higher, when we were young _ __

_ “...I don’t have anything to say.” Vyv muttered, “I love him. I want him back. It should have been me, not him. It should’ve been me.” _

_ Nobody contradicted him, but it wasn’t because they agreed. SPG touched his paw to the punk’s cheek, but other than that, nobody dared move. They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, listening to the music, staring at the headstone. Vyvyan couldn’t help but feel as if they were waiting for something - someone - to come and join them. They’d come early in the morning to try and beat the traffic. They left well after dark.  _

*

Vyvyan groaned and rolled onto Rick’s side of the bed, expecting to find the cold empty space that had greeted him every day for six years. Instead, his hand connected with Fred’s blazer - warm fabric that reminded him of when Rick used to stumble into bed fully clothed, too tired from a rowdy protest or night at the pub. 

“Morning Fred.” Vyv muttered. Fred grimaced and shuffled away from the punk, looking rather embarrassed.

“Oh, erm...morning. I um… Sorry. I shouldn’t...probably shouldn’t be here.” He forced a bit of a nervous chuckle, but Vyvyan didn’t look particularly bothered.

“Nah, you’re alright. Scared the shit outta me last night, you know. Feeling better now, I spose?”

Fred laughed and shook his head, feeling all kinds of uncomfortable. 

“Don’t make a habit of it.” Vyv grunted. He yanked his jeans on over his boxers and made his way downstairs with a dosy SPG on his shoulder.

“Who’re ye talkin’ to, laddy?” The hamster mumbled. Vyv shrugged. 

“Myself, I spose.”

“Ah.” SPG yawned, “First sign o’ madness, that. Talkin’ ta voices in yer head.”

“Oh yeah?” Vyv replied, “And what’s the second sign of madness?”

“When the voices start talking back.” Fred replied. They were halfway down the stairs by then, and the comment brought Vyvyan up short. He looked at Fred, smiled, laughed. SPG looked at the punk as though he’d gone mad, but made no further comment. 

“What’re we doing today?” Fred asked. He didn’t feel right. Subdued - not entirely Fredish. Vyvyan let SPG roam about on the countertop while he sorted out the cornflakes.

“Dunno.” He said, “Don’t feel like going to work.”

Fred wandered over to the drawing room, hoping to find something good on the telly, but was distracted by a blinking light on the answering machine. 

“What’s this red button do?” He asked, and pressed it before Vyvyan had a chance to answer.

_ ‘Vyv? It's me, Neil. I know you’re probably still asleep, right. And I know you probably aren’t even going to hear this message because you never check any of the messages I leave you, but I wanted you to know that I’m like...thinking of you today. Me and Gemini, and the kids. We all like, really miss you and everything, and we know how hard it all is for you. And, well, me and Mike were talking about getting something to drink at the Kebab later. Maybe around six? It’d be really nice to see you there, Vyv. You shouldn’t be on your own, man. Not today.’ _

Vyvyan suddenly seemed very interested in a black spot on the wall. Every muscle was coiled tight like a spring, flexed to show veins and bulges across his arms and neck. His teeth clenched so tightly it created an ache in his jaw. He’d forgotten. How could he possibly have forgotten the bloody date? One of the most important dates of the fucking year. The date everything was taken away from him in a split fucking second. And he’d forgotten? What, it had just slipped his mind? Christ, he was selfish. A stupid, selfish bastard. A stupid, selfish mad bastard with an imaginary fucking friend, wandering around his kitchen like everything was fine when it bloody  _ wasn’t _ . When it would never be fine again. 

“...What’s today?” Fred asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Vyvyan spat. SPG took refuge under the kitchen table, shrinking away from the bare foot that kicked out at a nearby chair. Fred sidestepped him easily as he stormed over to the couch, threw himself down and wrapped a ratty blanket round his shoulders. The TV went on, picked up the VHS tape from where it had left off. Fred was expecting one of Rick’s old TV shows, or maybe something that had  _ nothing _ to do with Rick entirely. Something so far removed from the current situation that Vyvyan would be able to keep his mind off it for a while. 

He  _ didn’t _ expect home movies. It had never occurred to him that there’d  _ be _ any. Vyvyan had never mentioned any - what sort of student could afford one of those bulky bloody video cameras, anyhow? And yet, here they were. The footage was a bit fuzzy round the edges, but clear enough. Rick’s pimply face dominated the screen, grin wide as he held the lense a few inches away from his face.

_ ‘It’s Christmas!’ Rick wailed, ‘Deck the halls! It’s Christmas everybody!’ _

_ ‘Rick!’ Vyvyan yelled, and at the sound of his name Rick turned the camera away from his face. Vyvyan was sat cross-legged under a sad-looking christmas tree, assembling what looked like a plastic race track for a remote control car.  _

_ ‘Here’s Vyvyan, putting together the Christmas present I bought him! Do you like your present, Vyvyan?’ _

_ ‘I’d like you to shut your bloody mouth!’ Vyv snapped, ‘Chuck us a screwdriver, would you? Put that stupid camera down!’ _

_ ‘Vyvyan got me this video camera for christmas!’ Rick continued, and then walked over to the mirror so that both he and the camera were clearly visible. Somewhere offscreen, Vyvyan swore under his breath and got up to fetch the screwdriver himself. Rick obviously didn’t notice. He walked through the drawing-room and up the stairs (the shaky camera angles were enough to make anyone nauseous, but the people’s poet either didn’t realise or simply didn’t care) to burst in on Neil in the bathroom. _

_ ‘What are you doing Neil?’ Rick asked. Neil was waist-deep in murky bathwater, shower cap pulled down over his ears.  _

_ ‘Oh, um. Hi Rick! I was just taking a bath before going round to my parent’s for lunch.’ _

_ ‘What did you get for Christmas, Neil?’ _

_ ‘Well-’  _

_ ‘You didn’t get anything, did you Neil? Not anything at all! Not even a stupid lump of coal!’ _

_ ‘Well actually, Mike gave me like, a really nice pair of socks. And Vyvyan gave back my astrological star chart, and even though you said you didn’t get me anything, I found a poem about vegetarianism on my pillow this morning, so-’ _

_ ‘Shut up, hippie! You’re wasting all of my film!’ Rick quickly panned the camera away from Neil and hurried back out of the room before the hippie could say anything else incriminating.  _

Fred sat down on the other side of Vyvyan, leaning into the screen with interest.

“What year was this?” He heard himself asking.

“84.’ The tail end of 84’ really. We’d only been seeing each other a few months or so. Got together...october, I think.”

“October 20th.” Fred replied. Vyv stiffened.

“...Yeah.” 

The christmas footage cut off as Rick tried to get a shot of Mike coming out of his room, but was quickly replaced by an out of focus shot of a birthday cake. The volume was so loud it was almost distorted - about twenty different voices singing in unison, with Rick’s dominating all the others.

_‘Happy birthday dear Vyvyan! Happy birthday to you!’_ _Rick cheered. The camera pulled back a bit to reveal the punk in question, sat at the kitchen table with a party hat on his head and a bemused smile on his face. There were a number of punks standing behind him, looking merry and drunk and only mildly interested in what was going on. Vyv rolled his eyes at the camera and blew out the candles to a round of polite applause._

_ ‘Right.’ He said, ‘Now get this bloody lentil cake away from me before I become violently and copiously ill!’ _

_ ‘What did you wish for, Vyvyan?’ Rick asked.  _

_ ‘Don’t answer that, Vyv. Could be a trick question.’ Mike tapped his nose while Neil cleared the cake away, mumbling that nobody ever appreciated all the hard work he went to.  _

_ ‘I wished for you to burn all your underwear.’ Vyv replied, ‘They only get in the way.’ _

_ He reached across the table for something out of view - a pervy grin supplemented by the telltale snap of an elastic waistband.  _

_ ‘OW! Vyvyan! Not in public.’ _

_ ‘We’re not in public.’ Vyv said as he pulled the cameraman into his lap, ‘We’re in the privacy of our own home.’ _

_ ‘There are people here!’ _

_ ‘So tell em’ to piss off.’ Vyv paused, ‘...Or let them watch.’  _

_ ‘Vyvyan!’ _

Fred shot a glance in Vyvyan’s direction, briefly distracted by a muted sniffle. Of course the punk was crying. Fred was on the verge of tears himself. He put a hand on Vyv’s shoulder, but it was immediately shrugged off. 

“He died today. Six years ago today.” He glanced at his watch, shook his head, “Woulda been dead half an hour by now.”

“...I’m-”

“What? You’re what? Sorry? Sure he’s in a better place? Sure he didn’t feel a thing? Come on then, pick a fucking platitude. Christ knows I’ve heard the lot.”

Fred shrugged. He didn’t have one. He didn’t have anything. Couldn’t even think of a decent magic trick. Vyvyan wasn’t a child - he couldn’t just turn his attention to a different activity, like colouring in or playing hide and seek.

“It’s my fault he’s dead, you know.” Vyv said, “I’m the one who got him killed.”

“That’s-”

“Not true? How the fuck would you know? You weren’t bloody there.” Vyvyan shook his head, “It never got easier. They said it would. They said I’d start to feel better. Give it a year, maybe two. I’ve given it six! Hurts as much today as it did when it happened. Probably hurts even more. D’you know what it’s like to wake up every day and know it isn’t going to be any better than yesterday? To go to bed every fucking night, knowing tomorrow won’t be any better than today?”

“...No.”

“No! No, you bloody don’t.” Vyv wiped his eyes, wrapped the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. “...Six years is a fair go, isn’t it? No one can say I didn’t bloody try.”

“What do you mean?” Fred asked. Vyvyan didn’t respond, just got up and made his way back up the stairs. His shoulders were slumped, obviously resigned to an idea he didn’t much fancy. It took Fred far too long to twig onto what was happening. Far too long to work out what Vyv had on his mind. But in his defence, it was hardly his area of expertise. He worked with young children, after all. Not fully grown, suicidal madmen. 

*

Vyvyan sat in the bath with lukewarm water up to his chest. From the bedroom there was music - a tape Fred didn’t recognise - blaring persistently under the bathroom door. Still in his jeans and his t-shirt, he dangled a hairdryer above the water level and counted back from a hundred. 

_ Are you sure? Are you really sure? Really very bloody sure? Yes, I’m sure. Take me to Rick. I want to be where he is. _

“It’s not going to woooooork!” Fred sing-songed. He’d teleported onto the bathroom sink, swinging his legs and observing Vyvyan with an alarmingly cheery expression. He’d gone for the classical approach this time; keep things as light as possible for as long as possible. You can hardly try and off yourself when you’re having a good time, can you? 

“It bloody will.” Vyv muttered.

“No it won’t.”

“Why not?”

Fred reached across the tub and yanked the plug out of the socket, “S’not plugged in.”

“Give that back you bastard!”

“No!”

“Yes!” Vyv strained himself trying to get the plug back, water sloshed all up and down the bathroom wall, and Fred stood his ground. 

“Listen mate, I’ve been in this line of work a long time, and I’ve never failed a single charge. Not one, you understand? I’m not about to start now!”

“Well tough, because I’ve had about enough of it!” Vyv snapped, “And don’t you dare try and tell me this isn’t what Rick would have wanted, or any of that bollocks!”

“I wasn’t going to.” Fred replied as he twirled the cord around his finger, “But since you brought it up -”

“Shut it! You didn’t know him like I did. You never even met the bastard!” 

“What was he like, then?” Fred asked, “You hardly ever talk about him. Not properly.”

“What do you care?” 

“I don’t.” Fred shrugged, “He just seems like a right bastard, really. I dunno why you’re so hung up on him.”

“I see what you’re doing.” Vyv glared. Fred shrugged again. 

“What’s the matter? Am I keeping you from something important?” Fred let the hair dryer dangle within Vyv’s reach, then snatched it back at the last second. “Go on then.”

Vyv sighed, relented. “He  _ was _ a right bastard. A right selfish, whiny, girly bastard. And he wouldn’t  _ want _ me to move on. He wouldn’t want me to get over it. He’d want me to spend all my bloody time dwelling over it and crying over it, because that’s the sort of melodramatic git he was! This -” Vyv gestured at the bathtub, “Would probably please the prick to no end.”

“No it blimmin’ well wouldn’t!” Fred snapped, “Don’t you _ dare _ start casting those kinds of aspersions about me young man!”

“Stop that!” Vyv snapped, “Stop doing your stupid bloody Rick impersination every time you want me to do something! It doesn’t bloody work! It’s not even very good!”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, my lad!” Fred jumped down from the sink and began to pace back and forth across the bathroom floor, “Do you think I  _ enjoy _ seeing you like this?! Do you think I like the bo-wing wruddy misery guts you’ve turned into? Just because I don’t want you to run off and fall in love with someone else doesn’t mean I want you to sit awound and wait to blimmin’ die! It certainly doesn’t mean I want you to top yourself! Do you  _ know _ what happens to people who commit suicide, Vyvyan? How does civil service sound to you? Hmm? It’s no walk in the bloody park, let me tell you! For Cliff’s sake, look at yourself! Trying to electwocute yourself in the bath! We don’t even own a bloody hair dwyer!” 

“...I bought it special.” Vyv said, “...Just in case.”

“Well you can blimmin’ well take it back!” Fred snapped. To his surprise, this strange rant had come out of his mouth rather naturally. For once, it really did feel like  _ he _ was speaking, rather than some strange foreign spirit that had taken over his body. He sat down on the tile with an infuriated sigh and made sure the hair dryer was well out of the punk’s reach. 

“...How come you can make him come back sometimes?” Vyv asked, “Sometimes he just sort of...comes out, and I start thinking he’s really here. Just for a little bit. And then he goes away again, and it’s just you. Why...why can’t you bring him back all the fucking time?”

“I don’t know!” Fred yelled, “I don’t know! I’m trying, alright? I’m trying really, really hard! I’ve done everything I can to try and remember what it was like to be Rick, but nothing works! I’m just...Fred! And I’m sorry that’s not enough for you, and I’m sorry you want to die! But I’m not about to stand by and let my very last charge off themselves with a bloody hair dryer!”

“...You’re trying to remember.” Vyvyan muttered. Fred nodded. He looked as miserable as the punk felt.

“I’m  _ trying _ .” Fred insisted, “It’s not easy!”

“Does...does that mean...does that mean you  _ are _ Rick, then?”

“Apparently. That’s what they keep bloody telling me! I dunno about you, Snotface, but I think this Rick bloke and me are completely bloody different! And -” 

He was cut off by a heavy spray of bathwater as Vyvyan scrambled out of the tub and threw his arms around his neck. It took every fibre in his being to stop himself from becoming disgusted at the gesture. Instead, he put his arms around Vyvyan and tried to say something that he thought would come across as comforting.

“Oh, look. I’m...I’m not the Rick you remember, Vyv’yan. But I think...I’m still here. It’s still me. I still care about you, and I still want to...look after you. And...I dunno. I guess we’ll just have to start from scratch.” 

Vyvyan didn’t respond with words. He started sobbing instead. Loud, long, guttural cries that sounded like the final screams of a dying animal. Fred held onto him patiently; stroked his hair and rocked him back and forth for hours on end. It wasn’t much, but it was progress. A step in the right direction, surely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, these boys <3
> 
> The poem inscribed on Rick's headstone is 'Stop All the Clocks / Funeral Blues', by W H Auden. It's best known for its appearance in 'Four Weddings and a Funeral', and has always been one of my favourites. As for the song that plays, it's 'If There Is Something' by Roxy Music. For reasons I cannot divulge at this time, I have a headcanon going that Rick is quite the Roxy fan. Plus, like Vyv, I think we're all getting a bit bloody sick of Cliff Richard...


	11. Memory Lane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello :) just a short one before we head back to angst town.

_ “Vyvyan! Vyvyan, wake up!” Rick hissed. Vyvyan groaned and opened one eye. His mixtape was still going - or maybe Rick had put it on again - filling the room with the Cure rather than Cliff Richard. He was still sprawled out on Rick’s bedroom floor - though his head was no longer in the poet’s lap - and judging by the light from the window outside it was much later in the day. Probably very close to sunset. _

_ “Hmm. What? What now?” _

_ “...Here.” Rick handed him another cassette, which he disregarded almost instantly. _

_ “I don’t want your bloody tape! We’ve got this one now. Let’s listen to it a few more times before you bombard me with Cliff bloody buggering Richard.” _

_ “No, it’s...it’s a new tape, Vyvyan! To make up for the one you made me.” _

_ “Bloody hell. How long have I been asleep for?” _

_ “Just a few hours.” Rick shrugged, “But there’s no Cliff Richard on it at all, Vyv, I promise!” _

_ “None?” _

_ “None!” Rick smiled, “I think you’ll like it though, Vyv.” _

_ Vyv turned the tape over in his hands, shook his head, grinned. _

_ “Yeah, I reckon I will.” _

*

“Right.” Vyvyan kicked the bedroom door open with unbridled levels of enthusiasm, crossed the room and unlocked Rick’s secret floorboard compartment. “I assume you’ve already had a good snoop through the bloody wardrobe.”

“A bit.” Fred nodded. 

“Well, this is the rest of all your old bollocks.” Vyv continued, “Yearbooks, school photos, the lot.” 

They kneeled down and peered into the gap together, neither one wanting to make the first move. In the end Vyvyan relented and lifted a dusty old teddy bear out of the compartment. Fred turned up his nose and poked it, reacting with alarm when a number of tiny insects appeared on its fur.

“You used to sleep with this from about the age of four on.” Vyv said, “You stopped mid 83’ when Neil caught you snogging it.”

“Who’s Neil? The bloke who left that answering machine message?”

“Yeah. He used to be our housemate.”

“Did I like him?”

“Not particularly. I don’t think anybody did.” Vyvyan tossed the bear to one side and settled on a photo album from the early seventies, when Rick had been cursed with corrective shoes, headgear braces and very unfortunate coke bottle glasses. 

“Eugh! Is that me?!”

“Unfortunately.” Vyv nodded, “You were an ugly sod. Not like this handsome bloke over here.”

Vyv turned the page to reveal a blond-haired boy in a sex pistols t-shirt, who had young Rick in a headlock. Fred squinted, then gasped.

“That’s you!”

“Yeah.” Vyv nodded, “We were about nine here, I reckon. There were earlier photos. I dunno where they ended up.”

“Did we go to school together?”

“Primary school.” Vyv replied, “You went to boarding school when you turned thirteen. But my aunt and uncle lived about two streets down from your lot, so we saw a lot of each other. I moved in with them after my mum left, you see.”

“Huh...Vyv’yan?” Fred ventured.

“Yeah?”

“...How long  _ have _ we known each other?”

“I dunno. About...twenty years? Give or take.” Vyv paused, “Christ. More than that. Met you when I was about six. Haven’t been able to get rid of you since.”

“...Six?”

“Yeah.” Vyv grinned, “See, I was walking down to the chip shop to get something for breakfast, cause mum had got paid the night before and I managed to nick some money from her purse before she drank it all. And I see these three older kids stomping the shit out of this stupid, girly little twat with his shirt tucked into his underpants and socks halfway up his bloody shins.”

Fred made a face, “It was me, wasn’t it?”

The grin widened, “Yeah! God, you looked like a right git. Snot all over your face, blood on your shorts and your stupid girly blouse. I couldn’t just walk past without doing something.” He paused, “So I joined in! Broke your arm in three places. Had to nick a bike to get you to the emergency room after we were done beatin’ the snot out of you.” 

Fred snorted, “Doesn’t sound like you liked me very much.”

“I didn’t. In fact, right up until I started shagging you senseless against every available surface, I hated your guts.”

Fred gagged, which only made Vyvyan laugh even harder.

“Why’d you keep me around?” Fred asked. Vyv shook his head.

“I dunno. Felt sorry for you, I spose. And you always got more pocket money than I did.” Vyv paused, “...Sometimes you’d let me kip at yours if my uncle was knockin’ me about. And then when we started college, needed somewhere to live...well. Just sort of...made sense to go in on the sharehouse together. Put an ad in the paper and found Mike, then abducted Neil from the bus stop about an hour before we were due to sign the lease. And - oh, look. Is  _ any _ of this sounding familiar?”

“Nope.” Fred sighed. 

“...S’alright. Maybe it’ll come back with time. Like the Rick outbursts, you know.”

“I don’t  _ want _ it to come back like that! I want to remember as Fred, not as Rick! If I can remember things like  _ this _ , then maybe I won’t disappear when I have to cross over to the bloody afterlife.”

Vyvyan blinked, “...You’ve lost me.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Fred groaned, “Isn’t there anything else? Is there somewhere you can take me? Some special place you used to go together or something?”

“Erm...not really. Well, there was the pub I spose, but that wouldn’t be open yet. And...well. Your parents had a beach house up in Brighton. We spent a lot of time up there in the summer, but that’s a hell of a drive.” Vyv paused, “...I could always take you to the cemetery, I spose.”

“The cemetery?”

“Yeah. Show you your grave. That might help. I should really go down there anyway - I haven’t been since your birthday.”

“But I never went there while I was alive!” Fred pointed out, “I don’t have any connection to it.”

“No, but your body’s there. That’s got to count for something, hasn’t it? We could even dig it back up if you thought it’d help.”

“I dunno.” Fred muttered.

“Well the only other place I can think of is the flat we were gonna buy in Croydon, and I can personally bloody guarantee you you’ll have more of a connection to your corpse than you do to that old dump. We only went in for two open inspections.”

“... I spose it’d better be the grave then.” Fred replied. Vyv put his hand on top of Fred’s and squeezed.

“I’ll go get dressed.” He muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Rick and Vyv have known each other since they were kids! Its too cute, I'm sorry. Couldn't resist. I might do a spin-off about them as kids, idk. Thanks for reading! See you next time!


	12. Indelibly Stamped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! Have some trigger warnings for grieving and fighting and generally being upset, because this chapter's a doozy. You didn't REALLY think these boys could go for more than five minutes without fighting, did you?
> 
> The chapter title is taken from the Supertramp album of the same name, because it'll be a cold day in hell before I stop forcing music references into my fics.

_ The tattoo artist didn’t look particularly reputable. He also didn’t look entirely legal. Barely out of puberty, a thick crust of acne across his jawline and upper lip, and the scraggly beginnings of a very unattractive moustache. Hair so greasy you could cook a bloody fry-up with it. And the shop was a fucking dump - small, filthy, half the ceiling was starting to cave in. Vyvyan wasn’t particularly fussed - he’d been tattooed in worse places. And dying of some sort of infection was really the least of his concerns. He threw a scrap of paper on the counter without so much as a word of greeting. _

_ “Right. I want this, here. And I want this, here. Can you do that?” _

_ The tattooist (Vyvyan was loathe to call him an artist, if the shite hanging on the crumbling walls was anything to go by) merely shrugged. “Sure.” He said. _

_ “How much.” _

_ “Dunno. Hundred quid for both?” _

_ “Fine.” _

_ “Take a seat.” _

*

“This is it, then.” Vyvyan offered an unceremonious kick in the dirt with his boot. Fred wasn’t sure he’d ever been to a graveyard. Not that he could remember, anyway. It wasn’t exactly the sort of fun, entertaining activity an imaginary friend would typically engage their charges in. 

“...It’s a bit depressing, isn’t it?”

“I dunno what you were expecting.” Vyv kneeled down in front of the grave and began to clear up all the dead flowers, wipe the excess dirt off the headstone. Someone - probably Neil, it was always bloody Neil - must have come by fairly recently, since there weren’t many dead flowers to clear out. There was a surprising number of fresh ones, too. And all the poems and statues and bits of tat that Rick’s grave had accumulated since its inception were looking tidy and polished. Everything in its place. 

“Did I write the poem? On the headstone?” Fred asked. Vyv snorted.

“Don’t be stupid. You could never write anything that good.”

“...It’s a bit girly.” Fred replied.

“Nah, not girly enough for you. It  _ was _ one of your favourites though. You recited it at your parent’s funeral. And at SPG’s, before the little bastard decided to fucking reincarnate.” 

“I’m surprised I didn’t do an original.”

“I said I’d throttle you if you did.”

“Ah.” Fred paused, “Is that the whole poem? Cause it’s a bit stupid if it is.”

“Nah, just a verse. Neil picked it. I woulda gone with a different one, I reckon. Well, actually...I probably wouldn’t have gone with a poem at all, if I’m honest. Neil’s good like that - he thinks of all the soppy little things.”

“Hmph. Sounds like a right drip.”

“Yeah.”

“...I spose you don’t remember the full poem then? Probably haven’t read it in years...”

Vyv sighed, “ Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum, bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.” 

His delivery was surprisingly heartfelt, and although perhaps  _ some _ of the more flowery lines of prose lost their sensitivity in his shrill, raspy scrawl, there was an underlying tone of melancholy that would have brought a tear to anyone’s eye. It certainly brought one to Fred’s. And as Vyvyan continued, unwavering, as if the words had been burned into his memory by some otherworldly force, Fred felt that same familiar feeling in his chest. That giddy warmth that made him happy, sad and nauseous all at once. The nagging sensation of having forgotten something really rather important. Something on the tip of his consciousness - something he could remember if he just tried a little harder. 

“Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead, scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.” 

Fred’s hand slipped into Vyvyan’s. He hadn’t meant it to, it just sort of...found its way there. It fit perfectly - like two pieces of a jigsaw. Two halves of a whole. No, that wasn’t it. Two halves of a soul, really. Or was it thirds, now? Him, Vyvyan and Rick? With Fred as nothing more than a third wheel, a poor substitute for something he could never really be a part of?

Vyvyan lifted their joint hands briefly, so that he could snap the buttons on the studded cuff around his wrist to reveal a smudgy tattoo.

“He was my North, my South, my East and West, my working week and my Sunday rest. My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever. I was wrong.”

It wasn’t  _ much _ of a tattoo, really. And some memory from the long-forgotten recesses of his brain told him that there were other, far more impressive ones. But this was different somehow - a bizarre touch of sentimentality and soppiness that a much younger Vyvyan simply would not have tolerated. A wonky compass etched on the inside of his wrist, accompanied by the words “Working week, Sunday rest - 20/11/84” scrawled in scratchy, uneven print. Their anniversary and Rick’s favourite poem - cut into his skin for the rest of time. 

“The stars are not wanted now. Put out every one. Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun. Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood, for nothing now can ever come to any good.”

The words hung between them with a grim sense of finality, and the tension in the air was so bloody thick you’d have a hard time getting through it with the sharp end of Vyvyan’s switchblade. Fred found himself staring at their linked hands, running his fingertips over the bizarre crescent-shaped scars on the back of Vyvyan’s hand. 

“...You’re right.” Fred said, “Rick never could’ve written anything that good.”

Vyv laughed - the same surprised, barking chuckle that always made Fred’s heart skip a beat.

“He erm...he wrote this one, though.” Vyv ripped the cuff off his other wrist and held it up for Fred’s inspection. Another tattoo, just as wonky and scarred as the first.

_ “Oh god, why am I so much more sensitive than everybody else? Why do I feel things so much more acutely than them, and understand so much more?” _ Fred rolled his eyes, “What an absolute wanker.”

“Ha! Yeah. Complete tosser, really.” Vyv let go of Fred’s hand to fiddle with his cuffs, and Fred took the opportunity to kneel down next to the grave. He ran his fingers over the headstone, poked through the trinkets, waited for something to click. 

“What are all these bits of paper?” Fred asked. He lifted up an expensive-looking paperweight to free the plastic bag pinned underneath - it was full of all sorts of scraps.

“Neil’s eulogy, I think. Probably more poems.” 

Fred dug around in the bag, pulled some paper out at random. It was weathered and torn, yellow with age. Bits of blood around the edges, but the handwriting matched the messy print on Vyv’s wrists. Well, it  _ must’ve _ been a good poem if they’d bothered to leave it at the grave. He rocked back on his heels and sat down, trying his very best to channel Rick’s energy, to try and remember something fundamental about the sort of bloke he used to be.

_ “Roses are red,  _ _ Violets are really more purple than blue. I’m in love with a psychopath.  _ _ Darling, that’s you.” _ Fred made a face, “Eugh. Disgusting.”

“...Give us that.” Vyv said. His voice was back to the blank, deadpan tone he’d been using for years, but Fred was far too distracted to notice.

“ _ Orchids are white, blue ones are rare, orange peels are orange, and so is your hair. _ Snotface, is this one  _ about _ you?”

“I said give it here!” Vyv snapped. He snatched the paper from Fred’s hands, crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket. “You always have to take things too far, don’t you? You can’t leave well enough alone!”

“Oi!” Fred got to his feet, hands on his hips, “Don’t start having a go at me! You think I like this anymore than you do? You think I like learning that I used to be some stupid whiny university student? A stupid whiny,  _ gay _ university student in love with an ugly bastard like you?! I  _ hate _ this! All of it! It’s all so boring and domestic and stupid!”

“It’s only boring cause he’s not here!” Vyv yelled, “We never had a boring day in our lives before that fucking lorry cleaned him up! Even the really boring days were a bloody good time, because he was there! You act like you’re the big I am, the great Drop Dead fucking Fred, but you haven’t got a clue, mate. You’re not even half as fun as he was!” 

“Oh, yeah. This is a laugh and a half! Violets and roses and orchids and orange peels! I can hardly  _ contain _ my excitement.”

“You don’t know anything.” Vyv muttered. He sat down on one side of the grave and hugged his knees, “You don’t know a bloody thing! Back when we were in college, we threw a massive party in the share house, and a sandwich fell from the fucking sky! We once robbed a bank and made a getaway in a double-decker bus. One morning we woke up and there was an atom bomb blocking the way to the fridge - another time Rick woke up in bed with a murderer, and we had a fight so mental we came through the ceiling! You can’t compete with that. You can’t  _ possibly _ compete with that. No one can.”

Fred sat down beside him, stuck between Rick and Vyvyan. He tried to think up a witty comeback, but nothing came to mind.

“He was  _ mad _ . An absolute nutter. Spose we both were, really. When we lived at the old share house - the very first one - and they told us it was gonna be destroyed, the stupid prick crucified himself in protest. That's how fucking mental he was. Have  _ you _ ever done anything like that?”

“...Not as Fred, no.”

“Oh, come off it. We both know you’re not him. Maybe you were once, or maybe I’m just mad, I dunno. But you’re not now. You’re a knock off. A poor fucking substitute. You don’t know the first thing about Marx or Trotsky or the bloody  Bourgeoisie.”

“Neither did he.” Fred pointed out.

“Shut  _ up _ . You couldn’t tell me anything about Cliff Richard or Roxy music, or Echo and the Bunnymen. And you can piss on his poems all you like, but I’d like to see you write anything better. You’re not about to tear through the house calling me a bastard, screaming for someone to give you back your bloody biro. And I’m not gonna come home at four o’clock in the afternoon to find you dancing around the drawing-room to fucking ABBA. Christ, you even dress like a cheap knock off. Look at you in your stupid green jacket. Shitty pigtails and orange hair. Fucking  _ orange _ .”

“I spose you prefer mousy brown.” Fred sneered.

“I do, as it happens.” 

“Well I prefer orange, so  _ there _ .”

“Yeah, cause you’re a fucking  _ knock off _ . You’re not nearly half as good as he was.” Vyv spat. Fred could feel his temperature starting to rise as his blood came to a boil, and all his training at the DIF about anger management and never screaming at a charge was about to go right out the window. 

“You talk a lot of bollocks, don’t you?” 

“Oh yeah? How’s that, then?”

“Do I look stupid to you?” Fred asked as he got back up again. He needed to put distance between them before he gave Vyvyan a good smack across the face.

“Yes.” Vyv replied.

“Well I’m not! Do you want to know what  _ I _ think about you and Rick?”

“Yeah, go on. Fucking enlighten me, why don’t you?”

“I don’t think you loved him.” Fred said. Vyvyan lunged, but Fred teleported himself out of the way - he’d been anticipating the outburst. “I think you liked bullying him, and I think you liked stamping on his head like the filthy bloody pigeons! Every photo I’ve seen, every bit of video footage, and just about every comment you’ve made or story you’ve told about the bastard makes it look like you hated him. And now you feel guilty about his death because it was all your fault! I bet you weren’t even half as bothered about him when he was alive!”

“You shut your fucking mouth!” Vyvyan lunged again, and this time Fred let him. He fell to the ground as the passive party and allowed the punk to cave his head in. Blood, tears, spit and punches flew as Vyvyan flattened his face into the soil, but Fred was entirely unharmed. Unphased. Vyvyan needed this. An outlet for the rage he’d been carrying around for more than half a decade. Judging by the sheer force and spite behind his punches, it had been a good long while since he’d had any sort of physical confrontation. Where would he have found one, now that Rick was dead?

“You don’t know anything!” Vyv screamed. He dug his fingernails into the fabric of Fred’s jacket and shook him. “You don’t know anything about it! You don’t know what it was like for us. You don’t know how we were! I told him I loved him every day before I went out to work! I remembered every birthday, every anniversary, every fucking milestone. I held his hand while he cried at his parent’s funeral. I gave him my blood when we came out of that fucking bus crash! We sat in the same hospital room for weeks on end! When we were kids he used to give me his school lunches, because he knew I never had any food at home. I never even had to ask! We fought all the bloody time, about everything! Over everything! Comics and politics and what to watch on telly! And yeah, a lot of the time I bloody hated him. I hated his stupid haircut and his god awful yellow dungarees, and when he used to compose free verse poems in the drawing-room. But don’t you ever _ ever _ tell me that I didn’t love him. That I wouldn’t have done anything for him. He was more than a dirty shag or a bloody punching bag! He was more than some bloke I was seeing for a bit! He was my  _ best mate _ . He was my favourite person - my absolute favourite fucking person! He walked in the room, and everything got a bit less shit.”

Every sentence was punctuated by some sort of violent action - a punch, a kick, a vicious round of throttling. By the time Vyv let Fred go the punk was crying again, and thick ropes of snot were hanging dangerously close to the front of Fred’s jacket. Vyv dropped him, swiped an arm under his nose to wipe the worst of it away. 

“I loved him, alright? I still fucking love him. And I should have told him more. Not just every morning - I should have told him all the bloody time! I shouldn’t have cared who was listening. Shouldn’t have cared what everybody thought. I should have… I could have saved him. If I’d tried harder, I could’ve. And now he’s gone, and he’s been gone for years and I still don’t fucking know what to do without him, because I’ve only ever had to live through twelve years without him to keep me company!” He shook his head, “I’ve known him since I was six, you git. Been in love with him since I was about ten. I was twenty-three when he died, and now I’m twenty fucking eight, and one day the number of years I’ve been without him is gonna outnumber the amount of time I spent with him, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”

Vyv broke into another round of sobs as Fred sat up and brushed himself off. He took a minute to squash his head back into shape, then shuffled back over to the punk. This was, quite possibly, territory he knew how to navigate.

“...I’m sorry.” He said. Vyv shrugged.

“You’re alright. I erm...I spose I needed that.” He wiped away a few stray tears and cleared his throat, “Been bottling it up. Never really...spoke about it.”

“...I didn’t… mean what I said. About it being your fault.” Fred mumbled, “It wasn’t.”

“It was.” Vyv sniffed.

“Nah, never is.” Fred said, “It’s like I always say to the kids whose parents are getting a divorce. Sometimes, things-”

“Just happen.” Vyv nodded, “And it isn’t anybody’s fault. And it definitely isn’t yours. It’s just how things go.”

“...Yeah.”

“Another thing you nicked from me. Used to say that to my kids at the clinic.”

“What clinic?”

“Back when I used to work in pediatrics.” Vyv replied, “I used to get all the difficult kids, cause I knew how to talk to em’. Sometimes the parents used to just...bring em’ to me instead of taking them to a psychologist. Wasn’t my area, but… I dunno. I spose I did alright. But this isn’t a bloody  _ divorce, _ Fred. Rick’s dead. He didn’t exactly leave on his own.”

“Yeah, but it’s not as if you killed him.” Fred pointed out. 

“...Didn’t I?”

Fred’s stomach went over. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t  _ actually _ know how he’d died. He knew it involved a lorry, but that was all. What, had Vyvyan been driving the bloody thing? 

“...How’d I die, Vyv’yan?” Fred asked.

“Christ, no. We’re not gonna talk about that.”

“I think I have a right to know.” Fred replied, “It might help.”

“Help who? You, or me?”

Fred shrugged, “Both?”

“Fred, I haven’t spoken about it since it happened.”

“Well, you’re long overdue, then, aren’t you?”

“...Fucking hell.” Vyv muttered. He wiped a hand across his stubble, shuddered. Tried to find the right words. Tried to work out where to fucking  _ start _ .

“Alright. Look. I spose it went like this…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, poor Vyv.
> 
> Once again, the poem is Stop all the Clocks / Funeral Blues by W H Auden. Rick's "Oh god, why am I so much more sensitive than everybody else" poem is, I believe, taken from the Young Ones Bachelor Boys book. It's one of his best, as far as I'm concerned. I wish I'd known about it when I was a teenager because I would have related to it perfectly. The roses are red poem is...a little something I wrote up that's about to become VERY significant...
> 
> Oh, and credit to Frankenbolt for the idea of Vyv working in pediatrics! It comes up in her fic Three Times Dead (which is amazing and you should totally read) and I believe she mentioned Ade Edmonson talking about it at some point. 
> 
> Next chapter's gonna be a massive flashback, and will probably have every trigger warning known to man slapped on it, so...sorry


	13. Dead Poet's Society

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Graphic violence, gore, major character death, mourning, grief, loss, really very graphic depictions of gore, angst.

_ Rick was a surprisingly heavy sleeper. He had to be - Vyv’s snoring frequently registered on the Richter scale. But although he could sleep through earthquakes and explosions, fires and lentil uprisings, he was always up like a shot at the mere sound of Vyvyan’s voice. If the punk so much as  _ whimpered _ in his sleep, Rick was up. Awake. Concerned. It was an infuriating quality at the best of times (Vyv hated being coddled) but did have one considerable benefit. If Vyvyan woke up first, and he almost always did, it was easy to get the attention of his bedmate. All he had to do was  _ talk _.  _

_ “Are you gonna stay in bed all day, Bogey-bum?” Vyv asked as he watched his boyfriend drool all over the pillow. He was lying on his stomach with his head on his arm, dressed in his girl bait Y-fronts and Vyv’s ratty old pyjama top with SPG curled up in the small of his back. Horribly domestic. Nauseating. Vyv grinned at the mere sight of it - he’d never felt so bloody lucky. _

_ “Hmm, I might.” Rick put his arm around Vyv’s hips, slipped a finger through his belt loop for better leverage. Vyv ducked down and kissed the corner of Rick’s mouth, twirling one finger around a lock of his hair. _

_ “God you’re gorgeous.” He murmured. Rick blushed. _

_ “What did you say, Vyvyan?” _

_ “I said you’re an ugly bastard.” Vyvyan replied as he left a trail of kisses down the side of the poet’s face.  _

_ “Mm, no you didn’t. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.” Rick pulled the covers back up over his face and began to drift off to sleep, but Vyvyan was having none of that. It was late, and he was bored, and the little scrap of paper he’d found in Rick’s room was just too good to keep to himself. So with a widening grin and the girliest, poofiest voice he could muster, he cleared his throat and began to read. _

_ “Roses are red, _

_ Violets are really more purple than blue _

_ I’m in love with a psychopath _

_ (Darling, that’s you.)”  _

_ “Mmph. Vyvyan, what are you on about? I’m trying to sleep!” Rick groaned and buried his face in the pillow, careful not to disturb the sleeping furball on his back.  _

_ “Orchids are white _

_ Blue ones are rare _

_ Orange peels are orange, _

_ And so is your hair.” _

_ Vyv snickered, “God, you’re a poof, aren’t you? A complete and utter girl.” _

_ Rick opened one eye to see what Vyvyan was rabbiting on about, his eye widening when he saw what the punk had in his hands. _

_ “...Where did you get that?” _

_ “Squeaky floorboard.” _

_ “You bastard! Give that back!” Rick reached for the paper but Vyv held it just out of reach - he was an expert at keep-away by then. _

_ “Nah, I don’t think I will.” He stood up and continued to read, rocking the bed from side to side and preventing Rick from pursuing him with any real degree of accuracy, “Daisies are pretty, _

_ And Neil has no style! Our room is dark, so is your smile!” _

_ “Stop that!” Rick made a poor lunge that sent SPG flying and landed him on the floor with a dull thud. _

_ “Are you writing me poetry, poof? Girly, sappy poetry? Rick, that’s so incredibly moving! I might have to be sick all over you!” _

_ Rick made another lunge but Vyv dodged it easily, and ripped the door off his hinges in order to escape the furious wrath of the people’s poet.  _

_ “Now it’s getting late, and we’ve just gone to bed! At one time you told me you wanted me dead. Who says I still don’t, poof?” _

_ “Vyvyan!” Rick got to his feet and snatched the scrap of paper out of the punk’s hand before tearing towards the stairs.  _

_ “Ha!” He yelled, “Tough luck, fascist!”  _

_ He turned at the top of the stairs to do a bit more gloating at Vyv’s expense, but lost his footing at the last second. Rick stumbled, overbalanced, and fell backwards with his arms outstretched, pinwheeling through the air to try and gain some sort of hold before he sailed down the stairs. His mouth fell open in terror, but seconds before he fell head over heels onto the landing, Vyv grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. He slammed Rick against the wall with an exasperated smile. _

_ “You’ll break your bloody neck one of these days.” He said. Rick snorted. _

_ “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” _

_ “Not particularly.” Vyv replied, and kissed him. _

_ This was the moment Vyvyan would carry with him for the rest of his life. Their very last kiss - their last fleeting bit of happiness before the universe snatched away. The unforgettable taste of Rick; a slight, sour note of morning breath and dried saliva. Rich and a little smooth from the cigarette Rick had smoked last night before - Benson & Hedges. Stupid, posh boy smokes with fancy filters, because the poof couldn’t stand Vyv’s hand-rolled “floor sweepings.” A hint of vodka from the punk’s own mouth, stolen and magnified by Rick’s. The crisp, grotty feeling of the poet’s hair between his fingers. A sordid, filthy mix of grease, gel, hairspray, and the cheap green box dye that was no doubt systematically destroying his fringe. The rough texture of chapped lips on chapped lips, quickly washed away by a quick swipe of his tongue. Rick’s clammy hand caught up in his, pinned against the wall without any real force behind it. A persistent sting as the poet’s fingernails digging into the back of Vyv’s hand, leaving tiny crescent shape cuts which, in the six years that followed Rick’s untimely demise, would constantly be poked, prodded and preserved until they went from minor grazes to prominent scars - a permanent reminder. Proof that this had been real, that it had happened, that for a brief and fleeting period of time things had been right and safe and good. And then there was the feeling of Rick’s free hand up under his shirt and pressed against his hip bone. The sharp creases of the scrappy bit of paper pressed between them. The slight discomfort of his nose ring caught against Rick’s upper lip, which only heightened the excitement. The electricity between them. The smell of deodorant, pimple cream, cheap, swotty, posh boy cologne. And of course, the sounds. The tiny little whiny moans that came from the back of Rick’s throat and shot straight to Vyv’s groin and made him weak at the knees. It went on forever, but was over far too quickly. Vyvyan waited until Rick was thoroughly occupied, one hand snaking back towards the piece of paper pressed against his hip. He snatched it quickly, stepped back, took off.  _

_ “Oi!” Rick yelled, “Vyvyan! You bastard!”  _

_ “You’re too easy!” Vyv grinned. He took the stairs two at a time with Rick hot on his heels, tore into the drawing-room where Mike and Neil were playing darts. Neil held the board while Mike tossed from the kitchen, missing every throw. When Vyv ran through the game and leaped onto the sofa, Rick followed suit without hesitation. For once, one of Mike’s darts hit their mark - it missed Rick’s head by a quarter of a centimeter, damn near trimming the hairs off the back of his skull.  _

_ “Oh, no.” Neil groaned, “They’re at it again.” _

_ “Easy, boys! I’m no head hunter, but when it comes to the dartboard I won’t hesitate.” _

_ Neither Vyv nor Rick paid them any attention, and the sound of Mike’s voice was overruled by the wild hysterical cackles coming from the punk and the poet as Rick threw his arms around Vyv’s middle and tackled him to the ground. _

_ “Give it back!” Rick squealed. Vyv had the paper scrunched into a ball inside his fist, and was purposely keeping it behind him at all times. Undeterred, Rick started to tickle the punk’s sides to weaken his resolve. _

_ “Bugger off!” Vyv giggled, “Get your fingers out of there!” _

_ “Give it back! Give it back, give it back, give it back, you bastard!” With his fingers still pressed against Vyvyan’s ribs, he began to attack his boyfriend’s neck with kisses, bites and hickeys. Mike and Neil were appropriately nauseated, made a hasty retreat. With his one free hand Vyv dove into the back of Rick’s pants to try and distract him. Rick seemed to relent immediately, grinding in Vyv’s lap to create an almost painful level of friction. Vyv let his head roll backwards with a satisfied sigh, his hand relaxing just enough to allow Rick to worm his way in and retrieve the poem.  _

_ “Ha!  _ Now _ who’s too easy?” Rick jumped up and continued the chase, pushing Neil out of the way as he made for the front door. _

_ “You bloody tease!” Vyv yelled. He stepped over Neil, damn near crushing him in his pursuit as Rick tried to shut the front door to buy himself some time, and Vyvyan broke through it without pause. It wasn’t the first time Vyvyan and Rick had chased each other round’ the streets of Codrington road in their underwear - frankly, it was becoming as much of an early morning routine as the milk round or the newspaper. _

_...But it would be the last. _

_ There was a brief scuffle on the bonnet of the Anglia - a frantic grabbing match that damn near ripped the paper. Vyvyan thought he’d have the upper hand (he always did, after all, especially where Rick was concerned) but the poet was getting cocky. His grip on the paper was ridiculously tight, and he weaselled out of Vyvyan’s grip without much difficulty.  _

_ Vyv should have said something when he ran towards the road. Admonished him. Surrendered. Ordered him to step back from the edge. But he was so caught up in the moment - in the sheer joy and excitement of being young and being in love - that the thought of oncoming traffic was the farthest one from his mind. He was too focussed on the early morning sunlight shining through Rick’s hair that created a bright, almost heavenly glow. On the tight fit of the poet’s girl bait Y fronts, juxtaposed with the baggy creases of Vyvyan’s pyjama top. On their plans for the rest of the day, once the dispute had been settled and they were too tired to fight. Breakfast in bed? A fry-up, maybe? It was about the only edible thing Rick could cook with any real level of competency. He’d cook one up if he was in a good mood, or if Vyvyan asked him really very nicely. Yeah, they’d go back to bed. Spend the whole day in bed, in fact. Why not? Why the bloody hell not? It wasn’t as if they had anywhere else to be. _

_ Christ, Rick looked bloody ridiculous. He kept his eyes trained on Vyvyan, paper held high above his head like some kind of bizarre trophy. His steps back towards the street were clumsy - he stumbled more than once.  _

_ “Come on, poof.” Vyv grinned, “S’cold out here. Give it up. Let’s go back to bed.” _

_ “Ha! No chance! This is what you get for stealing my personal property, Vyvyan!” _

_ “It’s got my bloody name on it!” Vyv took a step forward. Rick took another one back.  _

_ “That’s not the point! It’s about you, not  _ to _ you!” Two more steps - one forward, one back. Rick’s bare heels were hanging off the edge of the footpath.  _

_ “Oh, come on. Let me read it! I haven’t even finished it yet!” _

_ “Good! It’s private!” Rick overbalanced, but didn’t fall. Somewhere inside the house, Neil was asking if anyone wanted any lentil stew for breakfast. No one would. In fact, it would be a long time before Vyvyan would be able to look at the thick, stodgy consistency of lentil stew without being copiously sick. When spread across a china plate, it took on the unfortunate appearance of something else. Something far less appetising - squashed, thick, and visceral.  _

_ “Last chance, and then I’m gonna get you.” Vyv’s heart was pounding with excitement, the way it always did when things between them started to escalate. It took all the self control he had to refrain from shagging Rick against the front fence. Certainly wouldn’t have been the first time, but Balowski said if he got any more complaints from the neighbours for  _ that _ sort of thing, they’d be out on their arses before they could say Benito Mussolini. Still, it was a bloody tempting prospect.  _

_ “Come and get me, then!” Rick sneered, “You’ve lost your touch, old man. How many pounds have you gained in the last few years? Five? Ten? You couldn’t catch me if you tried!” _

_ “You’re one to talk, jelly botty.” _

_ “Ah, ha? Prove it then! Come on, come and get me!” _

_ Vyv didn’t need to be told twice. He lunged forward, Rick reeled backwards with a squeal, and the lorry that careened around the side street and onto the main road had absolutely no chance of stopping. The very tips of Vyv’s fingers brushed against Rick’s shirt, transferred a spark of static electricity. Then the punk was down head first with his face scraping the pavers, and Rick was caught under the front wheels. The driver kept going - drove over him, had no choice, no amount of breaking could have prevented it - and stopped a few feet away. Vyv sat up, still snickering.  _

_ “Now look what you’ve done, you clumsy git! My face-”  _

_ Rick was on his stomach. The entire left side of his body was a mass of shattered bone, bloodied tissue, thick lumps of gore.  _

_ “Rick? Get up off the bloody road you girly twat! Come on, you’re alright. Poof? Poof, don’t be stupid. This isn’t funny!” Vyvyan tried to sound serious, but he had an almost violent case of the giggles. Still reeling from the adrenaline of the morning’s activities, too young and too stupid to think that Rick could possibly be dead. Hurt, maybe. But dead? Unthinkable. The laughter carried on, delving towards mass hysteria as the punk tried to sit up, “Get up. Rick? Rick? Rick, come on you git! Get up!” _

_ “...Poof?” Vyv stood up, ignoring the bitter sting of the asphalt in his face. He went over to Rick, knelt down beside him. Picked him up. Held him.  _

_ The poet was still breathing. Only just. Weak, stuttering gasps that echoed and shattered inside his chest. Death rattle. Vyv knew it well. Recognised it, but pushed it to one side in denial. Rick would be fine. Had to be fine. There was no other possible outcome. Not in Vyv’s mind, anyway. _

_ “Ohh, you stupid git.” Vyv muttered. His hand went to the side of Rick’s face that  _ wasn’t _ entirely caved in. Cupped his cheek. Tried to stabilise the worst of the convulsions. Rick continued to gasp for breath, shaking like a leaf. His mouth opened and closed sporadically as if in shock. It reminded Vyv of the goldfish he’d owned as a child - the one he’d taken out of the bowl just to see what would happen. What had happened was that the fish flopped about on the table, opening and closing its mouth as it drowned on dry land. Fitting, since while Rick  _ looked _ like he was drowning on dry land, Vyvyan felt like it.  _

_ “You’re alright, poof. You’re alright. I’m here, I’ve got you.” He tore his eyes away from the bloody sight in front of him only once, to scream for the lorry driver to call a fucking ambulance. No need. The poor, unsuspecting lorry driver was already barrelling into the share house to hassle them for the phone. This, fortunately, had the added benefit of alerting Mike and Neil to the violent tragedy taking place on the street outside.  _

_ “Come on, stay with me. Someone’ll be here soon, poof. They’ll sort you out. Can you talk? Can you say something? Rick? Say something, love, come on.” _

_ Rick continued to open and close his mouth, gazing at Vyv through one good eye. He gave one final violent shudder, a sudden agonised spasm. And then that one good eye went milky and distant. Lolled from side to side.  _

_ “Poof? No, come on. Don’t go to sleep now, we need you to stay awake.” _

_ It all seemed to happen so quickly, but it must have taken quite some time. Suddenly Mike and Neil were on either side of him, pulling him away from Rick to give the paramedics easy access.  _

_ “No, no, he’ll be scared out of his mind if I’m not there! Please, I’m a doctor! Let me help! Please!” _

_ “Come on, Vyv. Over here, sit down. Let them do their job.”  _

_ “Be careful with him!” _

_ “They’ve got him, Vyv. They’ve got him. Come on.” _

_ Vyv still had Rick’s blood on his hands. On his shirt, his face. His boxers. It would be hours before he washed it off, but he never did wash the clothes. They went into a plastic bag, stashed in the back of his wardrobe. One last little piece of Rick to keep him going. A smell that couldn’t be scrubbed out. Vyv sat down on the pavement and watched, shouting instructions every so often. Be gentle, be careful. He’s a poncy poof at the best of times. Make him scream, and I’ll kick your teeth in. Somewhere along the way his voice died out as the adrenaline wore off, replaced with a dull ache in his chest and a series of whimpers that surely couldn’t have been coming from him.  _

_ * _

_ “He’s going to be alright, isn’t he?” Vyv asked. His eyes were bloodshot. Red rimmed. His seat on the pavement was bloody uncomfortable, and it was far too warm for the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Mike had a hand on his knee, and Neil’s arm was wrapped around his shoulders. The paramedic crouched down beside them looked apologetic, perhaps a little intimidated. She had every right to be, really. _

_ “...They’re not going to be taking Rick to a hospital, Vyv.” Neil whispered. _

_ “Yeah, coz he’s fine. Stupid git’s just being dramatic, as usual.” _

_ “No, Vyv. Erm...Mike?” _

_ The paramedic stepped in then, as gently as she could manage, “There isn’t anything we can do for Rick, Vyvyan. I’m so sorry. He’s already gone.” _

_ “No he hasn’t - I can bloody well see him! He’s right over there! Get up, you twat! Stop wasting everybody’s time!” _

_ “Vyv, Rick’s...Rick’s in a better place. He’s not with us anymore.” Mike’s grip on Vyv’s knee tightened. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. Not at all. _

_ “He’s not...he’s not dead, Mike. He’s fine!” _

_ “Vyv.” Neil said gently. _

_ “...No, no. No, he’s not dead! He’s...he’s just...he can’t...he can’t die! No, he’s...he’s... no!”  _

_ Vyv’s cries were becoming hysterical. Neil put his other arm around him, pulled him to his chest. Mike’s grip on his leg was ironclad. The punk clung to them both as the tears began to fall. He shook with the force of his sobs, screamed whenever he really started to think about the sheer magnitude of what had happened, and waited for someone to tell him it was all some horrible joke. Waited for Rick to leap up from the pavement and laugh at him for being so girly. Or better still, any moment now Vyvyan would wake up in Rick’s bed, and the poet’s arm would be around his waist, warm breath on his arm, and it would all be alright. Rick couldn’t die. Not after all they’d been through. Not now. Not at only twenty-two. Neil rocked him back and forth while Mike patted him on the back, and when Vyvyan got himself worked into such a state that he threw up all over his jeans, nobody complained. _

_ Someone must have given him a sedative. A pill. His memory grew foggy as they bundled Rick onto a gurney and pulled a sheet over his sunken face. This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening. Please, God. Surely they couldn’t take away Vyv’s only shot at happiness. Dangle it in front of him like a carrot in front of a horse, then snap it back at the last second, just as he was starting to let his guard down. He promised they’d be out of the house by Christmas. They were gonna get a flat! They had an appointment with a real estate agent in a week. Rick was making him wear a shirt and tie, had forced him to buy one special. When was he ever going to wear that again, except… _

_ Except at a funeral.  _

_ The scrap of paper slipped out of Rick’s rapidly stiffening hand, flew past Vyvyan’s face as a light breeze carried it away. The punk snatched it up at the last second. It was bloody and torn, but still perfectly legible.  _

_ Carnations are for funerals, _

_ Not roses (too red) _

_ And instead of my wake _

_ You’ve gone to sleep in my bed _

_ Rick had written this. Written it about him, for him, inspired by his love for him. There wouldn’t ever be any others. No more poems from the voice of a generation. The people’s poet was dead.  _

_ So you’re passed out drunk _

_ And nothing rhymes with oblivion _

_ Well, one thing does. _

_ You punk. _

_ My Vyvyan.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really very sorry guys. This chapter was one of the first ones I wrote, the one I reworked the most, and probably the best piece of writing of the lot. But that doesn't make it anymore devastating. Again, really very sorry...


	14. Murphy's Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....Is everyone okay after the last chapter? No? No, neither am I. But we're done with the angst for now, I think. This is a bit of hurt and comfort, but other than that its mostly fine I SWEAR. Thanks guys x

Vyvyan’s voice didn’t cut off as such - it simply drifted gradually into a thoughtful silence, as if the breeze had somehow carried it away. He flopped back onto the dirt (onto the grave, actually) and tried to equate the bag of bones under the soil with the boy who used to brush his hair off his face and kiss him between the studs on his forehead. Weren’t people supposed to feel connections to dead people? To corpses? To graves and ashes and final resting places? Frankly, he’d never seen the point. Rick was no more present here than he was anywhere else. He was dead. Gone. End of story. And then he glanced at Fred and wondered if that were true. 

Fred, meanwhile, had begun to clutch the side of his face again. That ache had started up - more painful than ever before. There was an aspect of deja vu to Vyvyan’s story. Something familiar. Not that he could remember it, exactly, but...that he’d somehow been involved in some way. 

“I don’t...I don’t think it was anyone’s fault, Vyv’yan.”

“What was it, then? An act of god?”

“Bad luck.” Fred replied. “You said it yourself! Sandwiches coming through the ceiling, bombs, crucifixions, serial killers, _bus crashes_? Anyone of those things could’ve killed him.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t, did they? I did, as soon as I chased him out of bed and let him get too close to the fucking road.”

“It was just an accident.” Fred muttered, “Accidents happen all the time.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better, is it? That it wasn’t _anybody's_ fault? That it was just sod’s law?”

“Well yeah!” Fred replied, “That’s got to be better than thinking you killed him!”

“It bloody isn’t! Acting like there wasn’t anything I could have done to stop it - how could that _possibly_ be better than thinking I cocked it all up? He shouldn’t _be_ dead. It’s bloody unfair, and it shouldn’t have happened, and I’m not about to sit here and listen to _anyone_ tell me that it’s just the way things go!”

“But it is.” Fred pointed out, “You said so yourself!”

“But it shouldn’t be! Not for him! Not for him.”

“...But it is.” Fred muttered. Vyv dug his fingers into the soil and tried to shrug. It came out as more of a shudder. 

“What do I do, then?” Vyv asked, “Since you’re the bloody expert. If I’m not supposed to blame myself, and I’m sposed to accept it was all just a sick twist of fucking fate. What do I do now?”

Fred shook his head, “I dunno. Get over it, I spose.”

“Oh right. Course. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll get started on that right now, shall I?”

“Look, Rick wouldn’t-”

“Don’t tell me what Rick wouldn’t want.”

“Fine, I’ll tell you what I don’t want! I don’t want you _moping_ around and being boring! I’m an imaginary friend for pete’s sake! I’m here to have fun!”

“Piss off home then, why don’t you?” Vyv replied. 

“What is your _problem_? What do you have to lose by having a good time for a few hours? Nothing’s going to change - he’ll still be dead when you get back!”

A smile, small at first, gradually made its way onto Vyvyan’s face. Dark humour was obviously the way to get through to him,and that suited Fred just fine. 

“Come on.” Fred said, “ _Come oon_. Let’s go do something!”

“Like what?”

“Anything! What about your weird flatmates going to the pub?”

“What about them?”

“Let’s go see them! Go on, it’ll be great!”

“Ah, Christ. No it won’t. It’ll be bloody boring and depressing.”

“I’ll make it fun! Really, I will. Promise!” Fred stuck out his pinky finger, shoved it in Vyvyan’s face the way Rick used to. The punk linked it with his own out of absentminded habit, but upon realising what had happened, it brought another small smile to his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...might we be seeing Neil and Mike in the next chapter?? Mayhaps....


	15. Vyv brings a +1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh my god this chapter took SO long to write. Sorry for the delays guys!!

_ “Vyv? Can we like...have a chat?” Neil’s voice was quiet and unobtrusive - almost soothing - but it still didn’t do much for Vyvyan’s mood. _

_ “Piss off, Neil. I’m busy.” _

_ “I know, I know. But like...it’s really important right? And I was waiting for a good time to bring it up but like...I don’t think there’s gonna be one, so. If we could just sort of, get it over with.” _

_ “Oh, bloody hell. Come in then. But make it quick, alright? I haven’t got all day!” _

_ Neil stepped into Vyvyan’s room as slowly and quietly as possible, as if he was trying very hard not to spook a timid animal. Vyvyan was in the same position he’d been in for the last few days - fetal. Lying in the middle of the bed staring at the wall, still fully dressed in the clothes he’d worn to the funeral. Occasionally he got up to go the lav or get something to eat, but otherwise, he probably wouldn’t move if the house went up in flames. No, scratch that - he  _ _ definitely _ _ wouldn’t move if the house went up in flames. It had already happened. Twice. _

_ “What is it?” Vyv asked. He didn’t even bother to turn his head. Neil sat down on the end of the bed, hesitated, then spoke in the same soothing whisper as before. It took every instinct Vyv had to refrain from smacking the bastard.  _

_ “...um...I didn’t want to say anything before, right, because it never really seemed like the right time. But...There’s this girl I’ve been seeing. Her name’s Gemini, she’s a shop assistant at Sainsbury’s? She’s really pretty and smart and like, funny, and -” _

_ “Oh, I’m terribly sorry Neil. You must have mistaken me for someone who gives a toss!” _

_ “Let me finish!” Neil replied. _

_ “Go on then.” _

_ “Well, she’s...she’s pregnant, Vyv. I’m going to be a father.” _

_ “Congratulations.” Vyv muttered, “But I still don’t give a toss.” _

_ “I wanted to ask you a favour. Well, actually I wanted to ask you a few favours.” _

_ “Christ.” _

_ “Well, Gemini’d really like it if you were her doctor.” _

_ “I’m not that sort of doctor. Besides, she doesn’t even bloody know me!” _

_ “Please, Vyv? It’d mean a lot to me. We’re relatively skeptical of the medical profession as a whole, and it would be like...a lot less stressful if we were dealing with someone we knew we could trust.” _

_ “...I’ll think about it. But I’m not delivering the bloody thing!” _

_ “No, no. I wouldn’t ask you to. You’ll really think about it?” _

_ “Spose. Next favour?” _

_ “Oh, right. Well, I’ve asked Gemini to marry me. Well, it’s not a real marriage, actually. Really more of a neo-pagan celebration of our undying love for one another-” _

_ “Getting bored now, Neil.” _

_ “Right, well. It’d...it’d be really great if you would be my best man.” _

_ “Ask Mike to do it.” _

_ “I did! He said yes, but I want you both. You’re like, the only two friends I ever had, apart from Rick, so.” _

_ “Not happening. Next?” _

_ “...Um...well. Gemini and I were talking about baby names.” _

_ “Shut up or Piss off. Be useful in later life for starting fights and things.” _

_ “...Well actually, Vyv. We were sort of saying...if it was a boy...I’d really like to name him Rick.” _

_ Vyv rolled over and stared at the hippie at the end of his bed. _

_ “...You want to name him Rick? After...after my Rick?” _

_ “Yeah. But I wanted to like, ask your permission first.” _

_ “You’re not pulling my leg?” _

_ “No, no. I even asked Gemini, and she said it’d be a lovely idea. What do you think, Vyv? Is it okay?” _

_ “...Yeah. Yeah, erm...course it’s okay. I think...I think he would’ve liked that.” Think? He was bloody sure of it. Self-centered bastard never would've shut up about it! _

_ “Oh, great. Thanks, Vyv. Really, thank you. It really means a lot. Listen, that’s all I wanted to ask so, I’ll leave you to it now, okay? Thanks again.” _

_ Neil stood up and made a hasty retreat, but Vyv caught him before he could get to the door. _

_ “Neil?” _

_ “Yeah, Vyv?” _

_ “Erm...tell her to be here at ten tomorrow morning. I’ll...I’ll do an examination and answer any questions she has about the ah...birth.” _

_ “Really? You’re sure?” _

_ “Yeah, I spose. And um...if Mike’s agreed to be your best man, I spose I have to say yes. So.” _

_ Neil smiled, “That’s...that’s really great, Vyv. Thank you, really. For everything.” _

_ “S’alright. Don’t make a big thing of it.” _

_ “But it is a big thing.” Neil said, “Really, it is. So thank you.” _

_ Neil left Vyvyan’s room quietly, and the punk went back to his previous state of despair. But somehow, the room seemed...just a little bit brighter than it had been before. A bit more hopeful. _

*

Mike checked his watch, shook his head, sighed. They’d been sat in the Kebab and Calculator for half an hour, and there was still no sign of Vyv. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised; for the past six years they’d planned countless get-togethers, and Vyv had only attended a handful. He’d been present for all of the births and christenings for Neil’s children (surprisingly) and perhaps one or two memorials. Other than that, they were lucky if he so much as picked up the phone. 

“I don’t think he’s coming.” Neil muttered. His hair had grown out past his waist - tied back in a sloppy braid that was no doubt orchestrated by his daughters - and his old uniform of filthy flairs and a dirty shirt had been replaced with newer, much cleaner flairs, a soft pastel shirt, and a denim jacket. Other than that, very little had changed. Mike was, of course, the same as always. Well dressed, well-groomed, not a single hair out of place. No one would have expected any less - why try and improve on perfection?

“Give it a bit longer, Neil. The early bird may catch the worm, but his hair’s always a mess when he steps out in the morning.”

Neil nodded, unphased. “Do you want to see some pictures of the kids, Mike?”

“Neil, do I look like the kind of guy who wants to sit around looking at pictures of other people’s kids?”

“Erm...yes?” 

“Perfectly correct. Which one’s my goddaughter?”

“This is Rosie, here. She’s getting like, really into dance. She wants to be a ballerina, I think. Gem and I are talking about getting her lessons.”

“Isn’t she a little young?”

“Oh, no, Mike. Most professional ballerinas start lessons at three. I read a book on it! Oh, and here’s a photo of Rick.”

“Christ, he’s shot up again, hasn’t he? He’ll be taller than you soon.”

Neil beamed, “He’s just started primary school, too. Actually -”

“I don’t believe it.” Mike muttered. Neil caught his eye, followed his gaze, and was immediately left dumbstruck.

There in the flesh, against all possible odds, was Vyvyan Basterd. 

“Christ almighty.” Vyv said, “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’ve all got even  _ uglier _ .”

He sat down at their table and Fred took the chair beside him, though his presence at this little reunion went entirely unobserved by the other guests. 

“Oh,  _ god _ . They’re even worse than you said!” Fred groaned.

“Good to see you again, Vyv.” Mike replied, “Neil was just showing me some pictures of the kids.”

“That right?” Vyv replied, “Give us a look then. How are the little terrors?”

“...You don’t mean to tell me  _ that _ has children.” Fred winced, “Who’d want to go to bed with him?!”

Neil took a photograph out of his wallet and passed it to Vyv, still in awe that the punk had bothered to show up at all. Fred leaned over Vyvyan’s shoulder for a better look at the brat in the tie-dye t-shirt, and was rather surprised by the glimmer of genuine affection that seemed to cross Vyv’s face.

“Who’s that?” Fred asked.

“My godson.” Vyv replied, “God, he hasn’t half-grown. Got any pictures of my goddaughter, then? Or are we discriminating against the youngest child?”

“Of course not!” Neil said, “I love all my kids equally, Vyvyan. You know that! Here she is. Isn’t she pretty?”

“I spose.” Vyv shrugged as he took another picture out of Neil’s hands, “She looks a bit like a baked potato, really.”

“More like a mashed potato.” Fred replied.

“I think we can all agree that  _ my _ goddaughter is the best looking of the three.” Mike said. Vyv rolled his eyes.

“Give mine a chance, why don’t you! She’s only six months old for fuck’s sake. Rosie didn’t look any better when she came out the box.”

“Hey!” Neil cut in, “All my children are beautiful!”

“Apart from Rick. He still looks like a snot-nosed git.”

“Does he get that from you, Vyv’yan?” Fred asked. Vyv covered his mouth with his hand to hide the smirk. 

“Listen, Neil. Clover’s a nice looking kid - no one’s denying that. But we can all agree that she’s no Rosie.”

“No we can’t.” Vyv replied. 

“I knew you’d turn it into a competition.” Neil groaned. 

“I can’t  _ believe _ you’ve got godchildren, Vyv’yan! You never said!”

“Are we getting a round in or not?” Vyv asked, “My shout.”

“Don’t be silly, Vyv. Drinks on the house, courtesy of yours truly.”

“Oh, thanks Mike.”

“Neil, go get the drinks.” Mike said with a snap of his fingers.

“Oh, I...oh. Right.” Neil sighed, stood up, and got out his wallet as he approached the front bar. Mike leaned back in his chair with a smile.

“I gotta say, Vyv, you’re looking well.”

“Am I?”

“Well, the last time I saw you, you were drunk, sobbing, and lying face down in a puddle of your own sick. I’d say this is a considerable improvement.” 

“ _ Sobbing _ ? What, like a  _ girl _ ? Over  _ me _ ? It was over me, wasn’t it?  _ Oh, boo-hoo, my boyfriend’s dead _ . Yeugh!” Fred poked the side of Vyv’s face, and the punk pushed him away with a casual wave of his hand, as if he were swatting a fly. Fred, being Fred, took this  blasé response as a form of encouragement. Rather than sitting in his chair like a well-behaved observer, he climbed up onto the table and squatted amongst the empty glasses. 

“Yeah, well. Time heals all wounds and all that bollocks.” Vyv coughed. 

“No it doesn’t.” Mike replied.

“No, it doesn’t.” Vyv agreed. Fred grabbed the punk by his wrist, forced his hand around one of the empty pint glasses and lifted it into the air. Mike carried on talking, partly because he liked the sound of his own voice, and partly because any bizarre antics Vyvyan conducted were not only unsurprising, but entirely par for the course. 

“Still can’t get my head around it.” Mike offered, and Vyvyan knew it was about as much emotion as he could possibly expect to receive from the legendary cool person. Vyv still had his arm in the air, waving the pint glass back and forth as if it were some kind of secret signal while Fred tried to come to terms with the complete  _ lack _ of reaction from either party. Uncharted territory, indeed. 

“Been up the cemetery then?” Mike continued, “I should make a trip one of these days. Haven’t been in a while. Still, as the doc said to the constipated sailor; better late than never, eh?”

“I spose.” Vyv muttered. Fred waved the punk’s arm around a bit more frantically, and was more than a little perplexed when Neil returned to the table, took the empty glass out of Vyvyan’s hand, and replaced it with a full one.

“There you go, Vyv.” 

“Cheers, Neil.” Vyvyan wrenched his arm out of Fred’s grasp and took a drink. Looking like a right git in the pub was one thing, but he couldn’t possibly abide by the spillage of good alcohol. 

“So how are you?” Neil asked, “How are you  _ really _ ? Be honest, Vyvyan. This is like, a safe space. No judgement.”

“What an absolute  _ drip _ .” Fred sneered. Vyv shoved him off the table to get a better look at his friends, voice dripping with sarcasm as he spoke.

“Oh, brilliant, Neil. Absolutely brilliant. The sun’s shining, the birds are chirping, everything’s absolutely  _ hunky fucking dory _ .”

“...I was only asking.” Neil muttered. 

“Listen, Vyv, if you wanna talk about it-”

“And what if I don’t want to bloody talk about it? What if I’m absolutely sick of talking about it? What if I don’t ever want to sodding talk about it ever again? Is that alright? Hmm? Or do we all have to sit around being poofy, talking about what a great bloke Rick was and how we all miss him and how fucking unfair it was that he dropped dead at twenty-two?”

“...Well, no.” Neil replied, “But I think it would be like, really beneficial to the grieving process if you had a sounding board for your feelings, okay? And like, I was only asking, right? There’s no need to bite my head off.”

By this time, Fred had made his way over to Neil’s side of the table, and was only inches away from the hippie’s face.

“God you’re  _ boring _ , aren’t you? Are all your friends this  _ boring _ , Vyv’yan?”

“Look, can we change the subject or not? Why don’t you prattle on about your kids some more or something? Dribble a bit more mindless shit while I drink myself to death.”

Neil shot Mike a concerned glance, but it was impossible to gauge the cool person’s response from behind his shades. 

“Say no more, Vyv. Mum’s the word, and I don’t mean mine - we all know she’s dead as a doornail. If you don’t wanna talk about Rick, we won’t bring him up again. Right Neil?”

“I just think it’s just really unhealthy, right? Bottling up these kinds of emotional traumas can have really negative connotations in later life -”

_ “Right, Neil _ ?” Mike lowered his voice and peered at the hippie over the top of his shades.

“...Right, Mike. Sorry Vyv.”

“I like this one.” Fred conceded as he checked his reflection in Mike’s sunglasses, “Even if he does dress like a tosser.”

“Right. So what have you bastards been up to, then?”

“Oh, well. The health food shop’s doing really well actually. Gemini’s organic preservative-free vegetarian lentil meat pies are a really big hit, and my lentil josticks are flying off the shelves -”

“Ugh! Boring, boring, boring!” Fred collapsed onto the carpeted floor with a groan, “Is this it, then? Twenty-two years on earth, and this is all I have to show for it? Two ugly flatmates and a boyfriend with a ring through his nose like a bloody cow?”

“And a hamster.” Vyv pointed out.

“What’s that, Vyv?”

“I said shut your ugly face you stupid hippie! No one cares about your bloody health food shop!”

“He’s onto something there, Neil.” Mike replied as he sipped his drink.

“That’s not true! Lots of people care, guys. Business is booming!”

“He’s got a bogey the size of France crammed up his left nostril.” Fred announced from his spot on the floor, “Can you see it from over there, Vyv’yan? You ought to get a look at it from down here - absolutely massive!”

“And anyway, you’re the one who told me to talk about something else. At least I’m like, making an effort.” Neil scratched an itch in the corner of his nose, only adding fuel to Fred’s vulgar observations.

“Eugh - he’s gonna mine for it, Vyv’yan. I’ll bet you anything. Any minute now, he’s gonna stick a finger up there and flick it across the room. It’ll take somebody’s eye out, you watch.”

“I told you to talk about my bloody godkids! Not lentil sodding josticks!”

“Oh, well. Like I was saying to Mike earlier, Rick’s just started primary school, and -”

“Do you think he’s  _ ever _ had a bath, Vyv’yan?  _ Ever _ ? Cause it looks like he’s got weeds sprouting out of his sneakers.” Fred scooted under Neil’s chair and peered up the legs of his flares, “Bit whiffy! More than just cobwebs up there, snotface, let me tell you!”

Neil trailed off mid-sentence, genuinely puzzled by the sudden facial expression that cut across Vyvyan’s face. Even Mike was taken aback, and removed his sunglasses to make sure he was seeing things properly. Fred meanwhile, sat up to see why the conversation had gone so eerily quiet. 

Vyvyan was grinning.

Not a small smile, or an unintentional smirk. Nothing forced, coerced or faked. It was a grin so wide it nearly split his face open, accompanied by a light snicker at Fred’s antics. At first, neither Neil or Mike could remember the last time they’d seen a genuine grin on the punk’s face, but the memory came quickly enough. Hit them like a freight train, really. Or maybe more like a lorry. The morning Rick died, of course - just before it happened, when they were mucking about in the share house. Since then, Neil had been working on a private theory that Vyvyan had somehow been rendered incapable of smiling - perhaps as an unfortunate side effect of the fall he’d taken when Rick got hit, or maybe due to sheer trauma. Mike had a much darker theory (one he never would have spoken aloud) involving the possibility that the Vyvyan they knew had died at the same moment as Rick, and what they had been left with was some sort of low budget doppelganger. An imposter. An empty half shell of the punk he’d once been so tremendously fond of. The grin on Vyv’s face seemed to debunk both theories simultaneously, shattering multiple belief systems and six years of intense speculation. If Mike wasn’t so painfully cool, he might have sobbed with relief. As it was, he got a little teary under his sunglasses, and Neil did a little bit of sniffling.

“What are you staring at?” Vyv asked.

“Is there something on his face? Oh yeah! There it is, I -” Fred paused as he tried to extract the punk’s nose from his face, “...Oh, Nope. No, no. That’s attached. God, snotface, you  _ really _ are an ugly bastard, aren’t you?” 

Another grin - Neil nearly fell off his chair. Mike shook himself to recover from the shock and returned the smile with some difficulty.

“...You’re smiling, Vyv.” Neil mumbled.

“Yeah? So?”

“Didn’t know you could.” Mike replied, “Just like shitting in the woods, I guess. You never forget how.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve ah...been doing a bit better lately.”

“Have you?” Fred asked, “You mean you used to be even  _ more _ boring and depressing?”

“You look better.” Neil said, “You’ve got like...a really positive aura right now, man. Very uplifting.”

“Ah, well. I...yeah. I spose things are just...looking up. At the moment.” Vyv paused, “...Do you think that’s alright? D’you think...d’you think it’s disrespectful to his...his memory, or something? Cause I still miss him like mad, don’t get me wrong. Every bloody day. I just -”

“Vyv,” Mike said, in a patriarchal tone reserved for very serious situations, “Rick’s dead. He’s not coming back. At this point, I don’t know that it really matters if it’s disrespectful or not. If he would have cared or not. He’s not gonna find out, is he? It’s your life now, not his.”

“Six years is like, a really long time to grieve for someone, Vyv.” Neil agreed, “And starting to feel better isn’t necessarily mutually exclusive to the grieving process, right?”

Fred had gone eerily silent, regarding these two hideous flatmates with a newfound level of respect. They were...helping. Had probably been  _ helping _ Vyvyan for the better part of six years. Once again, the imaginary friend was puzzled. Unlike most other charges Fred had been dealt, Vyvyan actually had rather good prospects. He had a job he enjoyed, friends who cared about him. Godchildren, even a pet hamster. He had a support network and an outlet - all of the things imaginary friends were supposed to substitute for until real ones could be found. 

So how in the bloody hell was he supposed to sign Vyvyan off as a charge? If the punk had all of the requirements for a well-adjusted individual, then technically Fred’s job was already done! But...but it wasn’t, because… because all the boxes were ticked, but Vyvyan still wasn’t happy. And Fred didn’t know how to  _ make _ Vyvyan happy. Not on a long term basis. Not without Rick. Not unless...

“Vyv,” Mike continued, “If something - or someone’s - making life a bit more bearable for you, then that’s gotta be a good thing, hasn’t it?”

“And you don’t need to ask our permission - or Rick’s permission - to be happy, okay? We like, totally support you.” Neil added, and Mike nodded in agreement. 

Vyvyan threw a cautious glance at Fred and was surprised by his relatively calm state. His stoic, reflective expression. It made him look even more like Rick than usual, and Vyv wasn’t sure if he felt like laughing or crying. 

“Yeah, well. I said I didn’t wanna talk about it and I meant it. So come on Neil - Rick’s just started primary school, has he?”

“Oh, uh...yeah. But we’re in a bit of a jam actually because like, the school's got an inset day next week and I haven’t got anyone to look after him. Rosie’ll be at kindergarten, but Gemini’s so busy with the baby, and...I dunno. Mike? Do you think you could like...watch him?”

“Sorry Neil, much like the girl I went to bed with last Tuesday, my hands are thoroughly tied.”

“Heavy. Well, maybe my parents could...oh, no. I think they’ll be out of town, actually. I guess I’ll have to close the shop…”

“I’ll watch him.” Vyv said suddenly. 

“...You’ll  _ what _ ?” 

“Hang on, hang on. I wasn’t listening. Vyv’yan? What’s happening? Who are we watching?”

“Rick, my godson? I’ll watch him for the day. Drop him off in the morning, pick him up when you can. S’no bother. He’s a good kid, even if he does dress like a twat.”

“Oh, Vyv. That’s really nice and everything, but like, you don’t have to, I mean-”

“What’s the matter? Don’t think I’m up to it? I’m his doctor, aren’t I? If something happens, I'll just stitch him right back up. You’ll never know the difference.” 

“You’re going to  _ babysit _ ?” Fred made a face, “You’re gonna do the job of a twelve-year-old girl, and you’re not even going to get paid?! What the bloody hell are you gonna do that for?!”

“Have a little faith, Neil. What’s the worst that could happen? At the end of the day, if it all goes to pot, you’ve still got two more. No harm done.” Mike said with a shrug, “Circle of life, really.”

“Three more.” Neil corrected absentmindedly, still mulling over the possibility of leaving his only son in the care of Vyvyan Basterd.

“No, Neil. Two. Two more. Christ, he doesn’t even know how many bloody kids he’s got!”

“Well, what do you expect from a dirty hippie?” Fred replied, “He probably can’t even count past two! I can’t  _ believe _ you’re going to watch his filthy hippie brats, Vyv’yan! They’ve probably got all sorts of nasty diseases!”

“Ah, um...no, Vyv. I’ve actually...well. Gemini’s...pregnant.”

“Bloody hell! Again? You’re like a couple of rabbits, you are!”

“More like a couple of pigeons!” Fred replied. He returned to his spot on the table to sit cross-legged amongst the drinks. He was getting reasonably sick of Vyvyan ignoring him, and wanted to see if he could regain the punk’s attention. 

“Well, that’s another godchild for me, then.” Mike said, “How nice.”

“Hang on! What makes you godfather? Why can’t I be godfather!” Vyv stood up and slammed his hands down on the table, spilling the drinks and sending Fred flying across the room. 

“You were only just godfather for Clover! We’re alternating.”

“Since  _ when _ ?!”

“Guys, guys. Don’t like, fight. If it’s a boy, you can both be godfathers, like with Rick! And if it’s a girl you can draw straws like with Rosie, okay? Let’s keep things peaceful and diplomatic.”

“Oh,  _ no _ .” Vyv groaned, “Does that mean I’m going to have to talk with that creepy friend of Gemini’s again?”

“Which one?” Mike asked. 

“ _ Bluebell _ .” Vyv sneered, “I wouldn’t mind so much if she wasn’t always trying to get off with me.”

“ _ What _ ?!” Fred snapped, his lisp returning ever so slightly. He stood up, dusted the crumbs off his jacket and hurried back to Vyv's table. 

“I’ll have a talk with her.” Neil said, “Or Gemini will. It’s not really her fault, Vyv. She just happens to be drawn to damaged auras.”

“Yeah, you have a talk with her, hippie. And then I’ll blimmin’ well  _ kill _ her!”

“Well, I think congratulations are in order.” Mike said as he raised his glass, “To Neil’s lovely wife, and the new little bread roll she’s got cooking away in the oven.”

“Oh, so  _ that’s _ where babies come from.” Fred muttered as the three men clinked glasses.

“And to Vyv.” Neil added, “And whatever’s got him feeling better. It’s really nice to have you back, man. Like, really nice.”

Vyv smiled and raised his glass again, this time locking eyes with Fred.

“Cheers.” He muttered, “So Neil, got any names lined up for the sprog?”

“Mike’s a good one.” Mike said, “Although it’d have to be Mike junior, in order to avoid a direct copyright infringement.”

“I was leaning more towards Vyvyan.” Vyv replied, but Neil shook his head.

“Actually, we were thinking something along the lines of Dandelion.”

“What, for a girl?”

“No, for a boy.” Neil replied.

“Oh,  _ Christ _ .”

*

Vyvyan left the pub well after midnight, tipsy and pleasantly buzzed but - for once - not completely sloshed. He wandered back towards the share house with Fred by his side, hands in his pockets and a grin on his face. He’d left Mike and Neil completely bewildered by his change in temperament, but overall they seemed genuinely pleased to see him. He’d made plans to go out drinking with Mike the following Friday, as it happened, and in the end Neil  _ had _ agreed to let him watch Rick for the day. It wasn’t so bad, this socialising bollocks. Not when he had Fred to help him through it, anyways. But speaking of…

Fred’s current demeanor was in direct contrast to Vyvyan’s. He was more than subdued; he was downright morose. Had been for hours. Something was obviously bothering him, but Vyv had no idea if he wanted to discuss it or not.

“You’re being pretty bloody quiet.” The punk ventured, “It’s nice.”

“Hmph.” Fred replied.

“What? Look, this isn’t about Bluebell, is it? Because -”

“No. Just...nevermind. Doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah it does.” Vyv stopped walking and turned to face Fred, trying to ignore how bloody gorgeous and Rick-ish he looked under the street lights. “Go on, spill your guts.”

“That hippie named his child after me, Vyvyan.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, I obviously mattered to him, didn’t I? Mattered to all of you.”

“Yeah, course. We were mates. Four musketeers, really. Maybe not at first - at first I think we all bloody hated each other, but...I dunno. We sort of got...stuck together I guess. We went through a lot, the four of us.”

“I just wish I could remember, that’s all.” Fred muttered, “And I wish I knew how to help you. How to make you happy.”

“ _ You _ make me happy.” Vyv pointed out, “Happiest I’ve been in a bloody long time.”

“But I can’t stay with you forever!”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t! It doesn’t work like that.”

“...Because I’m your charge, right? Is that it? That’s all I am to you. Just another job to cross off your list.”

“Of course not!”

“Well that’s what it bloody well sounds like!” Vyvyan started walking again, determined to storm off back to the house and have a good sulk, but Fred’s hand on his arm brought him up short. It was like electricity passing between them.

“All my charges are important.” Fred clarified, “All of them were different. All of them mattered. But you...you’re different, Vyv. You know that. You’re...I...I don’t know! It just...I’ve never felt anything like...and I don’t know what to do!”

They stared at each other for a moment, only a few inches of space between them. Vyv glanced at Fred’s mouth, wondered if it would feel or taste anything even remotely close to Rick’s, and then pulled away. That would be wrong, somehow. Unfaithful. Cheating. And Vyvyan Basterd was many things, most of them rather unpleasant. But a cheater? Where Rick was concerned? Never. Not in a million years. 

They walked back to the share house in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These boys, goddamnit. I hope it was nice seeing Neil and Mike again - I've missed having them around. We might see a bit more of them in the future, but don't hold me to that. I'm VERY eager to get back to the Vyv and Fred chaos. Thanks for reading everyone :)


	16. Nightmares and Dreamscapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooft. It's been a while - sorry guys. Title's taken from the Stephen King book of the same name, 10/10 would recommend. Brief trigger warning for pregnancy/birth and gross icky stuff. Enjoy!

_ “VYVYAN! VYVYAN, COME QUICK!” _

_ Neil’s cries echoed through the drawing-room and up the stairs, and Vyvyan sat up immediately. He kicked the covers off, threw on his jeans and a shirt, and tore down the stairs two at a time. It was doctor’s instinct more than anything else. If someone tells you to come quick, you run as fast as your feet’ll carry you. _

_ “What? What is it?” The lack of light creeping in from the front window indicated that it was still night-time, or possibly very early in the morning. Gemini was sprawled out on the couch, knees up and sobbing hysterically, with one hand over her stomach. Neil had a hold of her free hand and looked borderline hysterical. Mike came down the stairs soon after Vyvyan, dressed in his standard pink pyjamas and looking entirely unimpressed by the sudden interruption to his beauty sleep. _

_ “She’s gone into labour!” Neil wailed. Vyv sighed with relief, shoulders slumped. _

_ “It’s too early for that. Probably just false labour pains. They’ll pass.” _

_ “But her waters have broken!” Neil pointed to a dark stain on the living room rug, and Mike promptly fainted at the sight of it.  _

_ “...Shit.” _

_ “They can’t come yet! It’s too early!” Gemini sobbed, “They won’t make it!” _

_ Vyv pushed Neil out of the way and crouched down beside her, allowing his bedside manner to kick in for perhaps the second time in recorded history. He liked Gemini, honest to god he did. For a hippie, she really wasn’t too bad. He certainly didn’t want to see her bawling her eyes out all over the place.  _

_ “You’re alright, Gem. It’s gonna be fine, I promise you. Neil, make yourself useful and ring for an ambulance for Christ’s sake! And try to bring Mike around while you’re at it.” _

_ Gemini grabbed Vyvyan’s hand and squeezed onto it as a contraction washed over her. Long blonde hairs stuck to her forehead with sweat, and her eyes were bloodshot with tears, but even Vyv had to admit that she still looked quite pretty. A lot like Felicity Kendal, actually. Rick would have loved her. _

_ “Babies still survive if they’re born this early, don’t they?” She asked. _

_ “28 weeks? Outlook’s pretty good, I reckon. But I won’t bullshit you, love - it’s not ideal.” _

_ “I know, I know.” She wiped the tears off her face and took a series of deep breaths, then threw her head back and groaned with another contraction.  _

_ “...Those are too close together. Christ, those are too bloody close together. Neil! Get in here!” _

_ “I’m calling an ambulance!” _

_ “Drop the bloody phone! They can trace the number for all I care - the sprog’s coming now and I’m gonna need another pair of hands!” _

_ “No, no. I can’t have a home birth Vyv. I can’t! It’ll never make it!” _

_ “You let me worry about that. Neil, get her kit off. I’m gonna go and scrub up, get some supplies. Gem, trust me. Look at me - it’s gonna be fine. Everything’s going to be fine, alright? I promise - two seconds.”  _

_ Vyv made a mad dash back up the stairs and scrubbed his hands raw in the sink. He gathered towels, gloves, bin bags, bowls and scalpels and bottles of spirits, and anything else he thought might be useful. By the time he got back to his patient, Gem was screaming the place down, Mike was still passed out in the kitchen, and Neil was absolutely certain all the bones in his hand were broken. Not that he could examine it, of course - Gemini was still clinging to it for dear life. Vyvyan shot her an apologetic glance before lifting up her dress, and christ - if he wasn’t thoroughly into blokes before, he certainly was now. He snapped on the gloves, hesitated, looked at Gemini again. _

_ “I’m sorry gem. I’m really bloody sorry. I need to...erm… I need to check if it’s time to push-“ _

_ “Just do it!” She yelled, and Vyvyan complied with a great deal of reluctance. There was a reason why he hadn’t gone into anything gynaecological.  _

_ “Ah, shit. Bastard’s already making his way down.” _

_ “I have to push.” Gem groaned. _

_ “Give us a sec. You’re not getting baby gunk all over the sofa. Let go of Neil for a minute, hold onto me instead. There you go. Neil, get those bin bags out on the floor. And get her a cushion for her head or something, I don’t know.” _

_ “Tell me you’ve done this before.” Gemini said as she gripped Vyv’s hand in both of hers. _

_ “I could, but I’d be lying.” _

_ “Oh god!” _

_ “I know, I know. I don’t like it any more than you do, but this is how it’s going to go, alright? The ambulance is on its way, they might even get here in time. But if the sprog’s coming, he’s coming. I can’t do anything to stop it now.” _

_ “Is this alright Vyv?” Neil asked as he spread the binbags out over the carpet. _

_ “That’s fine. We’re gonna get you on the floor now, Gem. Neil, you sit behind her and hold her up, okay? There we go.” With Neil’s help, Vyv managed to lift Gemini onto the floor and get her settled, with Neil sitting behind her, his legs either side of her has he clung onto both of her hands.  _

_ “If you need to push, now’s the time.” Vyv said.  _

_ So she pushed.  _

_ All in all, it was over alarmingly quickly. Vyv somehow managed to suppress the violent urge to vomit, despite the frankly terrifying levels of blood and guts and...other things he really didn’t want to think about that were being thrown in his direction. And Gemini was a real trooper, of course. It was that no nonsense, “keep calm and carry on” attitude of hers that made Vyvyan admire her so much, and was also what placed her in direct contrast to Neil. The father to be screamed so loud and so long that Vyv thought it might just burst his ear drums, but he didn’t have a free hand to smack the stupid hippie with, so he was forced to grin and bear it. Mike came around twice during the birth (and promptly passed out again each time) and although Vyvyan felt about as ill as Mike looked, he somehow managed to keep his hands steady enough to catch the baby as soon as it was out. And christ, it was tiny. Far too small. But it cried immediately and seemed relatively alright, so Vyvyan wasn’t too worried. It was, of course, covered in more blood, visceral tissue and various bodily fluids, but Vyvyan rapidly decided he was far past the point of squeamishness. He scooped the baby up into his arms and held it against his chest to try and generate some warmth, and wondered how he’d ever be able to look Gemini in the face again after getting so...intimate with the other end. Honestly, when he’d imagined the circumstances under which he would first get up close and personal with the female anatomy, this was very far down the list of possibilities.  _

_ “Are they alright?” Gemini asked. _

_ “Fine. Neil, chuck us a towel. Poor blighter’s bloody freezing.”  _

_ “What is it? A girl or a boy?”  _

_ Vyv frowned - he hadn’t even bothered to check.  _

_ “Erm...oh. It’s a boy.” Vyv passed the baby over to Gemini, placing it on her chest so Neil could wrap a towel round him.  _

_ “A boy.” Neil whispered, “A boy! Gem, we have a son!”  _

_ Gemini clutched the baby to her chest and started to cry as Neil put his arm around both of them and Vyv peeled the gloves off his hands. _

_ “Thank you.” Gemini sobbed, “Vyv, is he gonna be alright?” _

_ “He’s looking good. He’ll be alright, I reckon. Bit small, but -” He paused at the sound of sirens and sighed with relief, “Right, ambulance is on the way. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah?” _

_ “He’s gorgeous.” Neil muttered, “Isn’t he gorgeous?” _

_ “No.” Vyv replied, “But I wouldn’t worry. Most babies look like Winston Churchill shagged Mr Potato Head at this age.” _

_ Mike sat up and clutched the dining room table for balance, “Is it over?” _

_ “All done, Mike. It’s a boy.” _

_ “Oh, great. Congratulations, Neil. Gem.” _

_ “Don’t come over here, Mike. There’s bits all over the carpet.” _

_ “Duly noted, Vyv. Thanks for the warning.” _

_ “Do you want to hold him, Vyv?” Gemini asked.  _

_ “I just did.” _

_ “Hold him again.” Gem replied, and Vyv didn’t have the energy to argue. Mindful of the umbilical cord (there was no bloody way he was touching that until the paramedics got there) he picked up the screaming little sprog and gave it a proper look.  _

_ “Are you still set on the name, babe?”  _

_ “Absolutely, Gem. If you’re alright with it.” _

_ “Course.” Gemini smiled, “Vyv? Say hello to Rick Pye.” _

_ Vyv looked down at the tiny, wrinkly thing in his arms and shook his head. _

_ “You’re sure?” _

_ “Positive. What do you think?” _

_ “...I think he’s bloody gorgeous.” Vyv muttered, “I think Rick’d love him to bits. I think...I think I bloody love him to bits.” _

_ The paramedics came while Vyv was still holding baby Rick, and gently took him and Gem out to the ambulance to get them sorted, leaving the punk bloodied and alone on the front step. As Neil climbed into the ambulance with his wife and child, Vyv looked up at the stars with the faintest hint of a smile. _

_ “...I wish you were here, poof.” He mumbled, “...Christ. I’d give anything to have you here.” _

*

Fred never had much to do when his charges were sleeping. Other than pretend to sleep, of course, but that wasn’t exactly a thrilling pass time. Usually, he busied himself by playing with his charges toys or by thinking up new games to play in the morning (or later that night). But Vyv was, obviously, a different situation. And not  _ just _ because he was an adult, either. So was Lizzie, after all, and Fred coped just fine. No.

Vyv was different because of all the nightmares.

They came on like clockwork, usually around two in the morning. They started slow from what Fred could tell - a few uneasy murmurs, a whimper, a cry - and gradually ramped up in intensity as the clock inched towards three. At three-thirty they peaked, and Vyvyan would scream bloody murder for what felt like an eternity, kicking and thrashing and sobbing. SPG would wisely vacate the general vicinity, and Fred would be forced to watch on as they slowly wound back down. He’d tried waking the punk up before with no success - he was dead to the world and entirely unreachable once the initial round of whimpering kicked in. He’d never had a charge quite like it, and frankly, his patience was beginning to wear thin. Night after night of hysterical screaming would surely rattle anybody’s nerves, and the feeling of helplessness that accompanied it made him sick. Especially following the uncomfortable...moment they’d shared after drinks with Mike and Neil. Truthfully, Fred wasn’t sure  _ how _ he was supposed to be feeling about Vyv - all he knew was that he hated seeing him so upset. 

So when two am rolled around and Vyvyan started his regular routine, all Fred could think to do was climb into bed next to him, and hope that some of the terror might be eased by physical contact. 

“Vyv’yan?” Fred whispered as he rested one hand on the punk’s forearm, “It’s alright - you’re dreaming. Come on, it’s alright.”

Vyvyan ignored him, carried on screaming like a rabbit caught in a snare. It was quite possibly the worst sound Fred had ever heard, and it made him want to puncture his eardrums just so he wouldn’t have to tolerate it any further. 

_ “Vyv, please. It’s alright. I’m here. Stop screaming for Cliff’s sake!” _

Vyvyan rolled over - thrashing blindly - and unintentionally threw his arm around Fred’s middle. Fred froze at the shock, but Vyvyan simply pulled him into his arms and held him in a death grip. From the far depths of sleep, Vyvyan seemed to resurface. His voice was groggy, not at all there, but it was a welcome change from the pained, bloodcurdling screams from earlier.

“Had a nightmare.” He mumbled, his breath warm on the side of Fred’s face.

“You were screaming.” Fred’s mouth was suddenly very dry.

“Dreamt I lost you.” Vyv replied, and Fred could feel tears beginning to fall from the punk’s face. “Christ, it was so real. You got...you got hit by a lorry or something. I dunno.”

“...Well, it was just a dream.” Fred muttered, “...I’m here now.”

“I dunno how I’d do without you, poof.” 

“...I’m not going anywhere.” Fred replied, “Go back to sleep.”

“You’ll still be here when I wake up?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Promise?” Vyv asked as his voice began to fade - distant and muffled as he drifted back into sleep.

“...I promise.”

Fred waited till Vyvyan was well and truly out, snoring against the back of his neck, and then gently rolled over to get a better look at him. Thinning hair, forehead studs, no more zits, but the same boyish face that Rick had fallen in love with over a decade ago. Or was it longer than a decade? Probably far longer.

_ Definitely _ far longer. 

“...I was thirteen. Home from boarding school. You didn’t like me very much then - we fell out soon after. Barely spoke until college. But...but first there was that summer. That day at my house, reading comics and spinning records. You had a new album, Roxy music. You nicked it from someone, I never asked who, and you thought it was smarmy pop bollocks but I thought it was  _ great _ . You...you kissed me.” Fred gasped at the sudden surge of vivid memories. It was so violent it was almost painful. He could recall that day in complete picture perfect detail, as if he’d lived through it himself. As if it had only just occurred. He cupped Vyvyan’s cheek and shook his head in disbelief.

“...I’ve been in love with you for more than half my life.” He whispered. And if there had been any doubt before, it was swiftly obliterated by the ache in Fred’s chest. The giddy feeling in his stomach and a sudden bout of lightheadedness. He’d loved Vyvyan back then, and he still loved him now. He barely bloody knew him, really, but that didn’t seem very important. He loved. He loved, and he was loved.

And soon he would have to leave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fred: I'm in love with Vyv...
> 
> The Entire Young Ones fandom: :0


	17. Our House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These updates are getting so slow ooft. Sorry guys.

_ “Has anyone seen P?” Neil asked. He had a dog bowl full of cornflakes in one hand, a spoon in the other, and had been wandering aimlessly around the sharehouse for about half an hour.  _

_ This was becoming a routine, Neil and Gem’s regularly scheduled visits. They dropped in with baby Rick about three times a week to make sure Vyv was coping alright. It seemed a bit bizarre, really, especially when Mike was still in the house and was managing Vyv just fine. Which is to say, he was giving Vyvyan exactly what he wanted and leaving him alone, because he had absolutely no idea how to cope with a distraught borderline suicidal punk. As far as the Pye’s were concerned, this would not do.  _

_ “They’ll be around somewhere.” Vyv replied from his spot on the couch. He had baby Rick asleep in his arms and Gemini’s feet across his lap. Their relationship had become one of sibling proportions as of late, which was sort of...nice. Vyv couldn’t help but wonder what Rick might have made of her, and what she would have thought of him. Would they have got on? She’d become part of the group, really. How would Rick have coped with a new addition? He wished he knew.  _

_ “I haven’t seen them in like...weeks, man.” Neil said, “That’s not like them. P? Petyr! Come and have your cornflakes!” _

_ “Who is Petyr, exactly?” Gemini asked. _

_ “Poltergoost.” Neil replied. _

_ “The other housemate.” Mike said from the kitchen. _

_ “Fridge demon.” Vyv grunted. _

_ “I haven’t seen him in ages. Not since...Not since...Rick…” _

_ Silence.  _

_ “...Rick was his favourite.” Vyv muttered. “Always following him around. Skulking after him. Scaring him at every bloody opportunity. He was haunting Rick, really. Not the rest of us.” _

_ “And now that Rick’s gone.” Neil sighed.  _

_ And for the first time, Vyvyan was forced to realise how quiet, how boring...and how completely un-chaotic the house was without Rick in it.  _

*

The first change to the house was painfully obvious - Vyvyan couldn’t have missed it if he tried. He noticed it almost immediately, as soon as he came downstairs and opened the cupboard under the stairs to fetch the plunger (Just  _ one _ morning where Fred didn’t clog up the bathroom would have been nice) and came face to face with someone he’d almost forgotten. 

“...Petyr?” Vyv peered into the cupboard with an uneasy frown. No, surely it couldn’t be P. Not now, after all this time? His eyes must’ve been playing tricks on him.

But the fifth housemate stared back at Vyvyan and shuffled forward, as if asserting that they were indeed there, present and accounted for.

“Vyv’yan? Did you get lost on the way to the cupboard?” Fred slid down the bannister and came to stand behind the punk with a grimace.

“Eugh! What the bloody hell’s that!”

“P.” Vyv said, “Our fridge demon. Don’t you remember?”

“No. Why is it looking at me?”

“Don’t be stupid. They can’t bloody see you.”

But P’s reaction to the sound of Fred’s voice suggested otherwise. Especially when P stood up, pulled Fred into a brief hug, made some bizarre noise of contentment (Vyv didn’t even know P was capable of  _ making _ noise) and then shuffled into the kitchen to rummage around for cornflakes.

“...He...he can see me. Vyv? He can see me!” Fred grinned, then froze. He grabbed onto the punk’s shoulder for balance and tried to stay upright as another memory washed over him.

_ P used to follow him everywhere. Absolutely everywhere! They appeared sometime during their first term at Scumbag, way back in the old share house, and somehow followed them to the new one. Everywhere Rick went, from watching telly in the drawing-room to having a bath, P was there. Hiding. Lurking. Christ, Rick had hated it. They all had, but Rick most of all, because P never seemed to stalk anybody else with such passionate intensity. He made a brief disappearance some time before the bus crash, but...but then he came back.  _

“...I was his favourite.” Fred muttered. Vyv nodded.

“He went away after you...I mean, after Rick-”

“After I died?” Fred offered. 

“...Yeah.” __

“And now he’s back. And he can...see me.”

“Spose so.” Vyv smiled, “Guess he’s missed you. I’ve...erm. I’ve missed you too.”

From there, things seemed to spring to life. Perhaps it was due to P’s reappearance, or Vyv’s sudden improvement in mood, or something entirely different all together. The reason hardly mattered when chaos reigned supreme once more. When pirates were invading the drawing-room and treasure was buried under the stairs. When Vyv stepped into the garden one day and found it had turned into a tropical jungle complete with snakes and monkeys and tigers, or when it started snowing  _ indoors _ instead of out. It hadn’t been this way since college. 

And who was Vyv to complain when Fred was right there beside him, battling pirates and exploring jungles and building impressive ski slopes on the staircase? He’d forgotten life could be like this. Forgotten it could be so good, so fun. So completely care free. And try as he might, it was difficult to remember that it  _ was _ Fred beside him, not the spotty whiny anarchist that had been trailing behind him since primary school. Especially when, at random and unexpected moments, Fred would suddenly remember something from his life as Rick. Not  _ turn into _ Rick, exactly, but somehow assimilate his old memories with his new ones. It was not uncommon for him to call Vyvyan  _ Vyv _ , or to refer to him as an utter bastard. Conversing with Petyr became a regular occurrence, even if the demon never seemed to speak back. Fred never wrote poetry, but he wrote every scrap of Rick’s he could possibly get his hands on, and occasionally hummed a Cliff Richard lyric under his breath if his mood was particularly good. 

Vyv nearly fell off his chair when Fred burst into the living room and announced that he could  _ vividly _ remember the strenuous sex marathon that was the summer of 85’. It had them both feeling rather embarrassed, and that awkwardness between them made an uncomfortable resurgence. An awkwardness that would eventually boil over, of course. How could it not? Though it would come at a most inconvenient moment, and entirely against the better judgment of all parties concerned. 

...But not just yet. For the moment they were content with cricket matches in the kitchen and crocodiles in the bath. With bizarre one-off adventures and mishaps that seemed to right themselves overnight. With each other, with their entirely clueless hamster, and the mysterious fridge demon that may or may not have orchestrated all the chaos to begin with. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist a bit of fifth housemate action :)))


	18. A Nightmare on Credibility Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe that I had to take a break from my own fic because it was too damn angsty? Of course you would, this thing's angsty as all hell. Anyway, sorry for the delay and I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. And as always, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Oh, and also, this chapter is dedicated to my very lovely friend ScumbagAnarchy, who has had me completely and utterly inspired by their incredible fic - A Bastard's Carol. DEFINITELY give that a read if you haven't already, it's fast becoming one of my all time favourites, and the idea of Vyv sucking his thumb is too sad/adorable to pass up. So, INTO THE MELTING POT OF ANGST IT GOES! Love you hun <3 xx

_ “Do you know,” Rick said as he played with Vyv’s fingers, repeatedly entwining and untangling them with his own, “That you suck your thumb in your sleep?” _

_ “Piss off. I do not!” Vyv snatched his hand away and moved to the other end of the sofa, but the grin on his face was impossible to hide. _

_ “You do.” Rick continued, “It’s cute.” _

_ “I’m not cute.” _

_ “You blimmin’ well are.” Rick replied as he crawled across the couch cushions to encroach on Vyv’s personal space once more. Vyv made a face to contradict his point, but it somehow only seemed to strengthen the argument. _

_ “...I quite like it, really.” The poet added.  _

_ “That’s cause you’re a gross pervy.” _

_ “Not like that! Don’t be so disgusting, Vyvyan. I...I like it because...because on the nights you suck your thumb, you almost never have any nightmares.” _

_ Vyv shifted uncomfortably in his seat and refused to meet Rick’s eyes. He hadn’t realised Rick knew about the nightmares. Hadn’t known they were so obvious. He wanted to know what Rick made of them, but he was honestly too frightened to ask. Either way, it hadn’t scared the poet off. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it? It was nice to know that Rick loved him in spite of the nightmares. _

_...Unless...unless he simply pitied him because of it. _

*

He was doing it again. That gross, girly thing he did with his thumb. The same habit that was deeply ingrained in all of Fred’s charges. Well, the ones under the age of eight, anyway. 

Thumb sucking. 

Honestly, Fred had never seen the appeal. It wasn’t anywhere near as satisfying as snot flicking, or nose picking, or farting at the dinner table. It was just...wet. And...salty. Not at all comforting. And he should know - he’d tried it. Hundreds of thousands of times. But at least if Vyvyan did it, it was apt to be a peaceful night. 

...Or so Fred thought. 

Because it was worth remembering that Vyvyan was, in fact, a right bastard at the best of times, and he certainly wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to make Fred look like an idiot. Just as the imaginary friend was beginning to relax, Vyv promptly removed his thumb from his mouth, rolled over, and began to scream. Fantastic. 

“ _ Vyv’yan _ .” Fred hissed, “ _ Vyv’yan! Oh, not again. Come on, wake up.” _

He rolled the punk onto his back and gathered him up in his arms as best he could, since clearly it was physical contact that seemed to soothe him the quickest. With one hand pressed against the punk’s forehead and the other under his arms, Fred rocked back and forth to try and be comforting. Really, it wasn’t his strong suit. 

This just wasn’t  _ fair.  _ Rick should have been here - he’d know what to do. He’d have all the right words and phrases, would know exactly what Vyvyan needed in order to calm down. Fred was flying blind, here. He didn’t have a clue. 

“I’m sorry, snotface.” He muttered, “I’m  _ so _ sorry. I wish I knew how to help you. I’m not...not good with this. I’d bring Rick back for you if I could.”

Fred glanced around the room in the hopes that something might jog his memory, but came across very little other than SPG asleep on the pillow next to him and Petyr dwelling in the corner of the room. He looked at the demon with newfound disdain.

“Can’t  _ you _ do something?!” He snapped. Petyr shrugged. “Oh, what blimmin’ good are you? Ruddy heck, can’t you see he needs help?”

Another shrug. 

“For Cliff’s sake!” Fred groaned. SPG flinched as if he’d been shot, then raised his head with interest. He could have  _ sworn _ he’d heard something. And when he glanced at Vyvyan, he could have sworn he  _ saw _ something, too. Someone that was both Rick and not Rick holding the punk up. And then it was gone, and Vyvyan was sitting up by himself, and SPG decided he must have been dreaming. 

“Vyv, come on. I can’t keep doing this every blimmin’ night!” He shook the punk lightly, acting on instinct rather than logic, then gently ducked down and kissed him on the cheek. The reaction was instant, unstoppable, and scared the bejesus out of both of them.

“Rick!” Vyv screamed, and his eyes shot open. He grabbed onto Fred’s arm and dug his nails into the soft green fabric, shaking and gasping for air.

“It’s alright, Vyv’yan. It’s alright. It’s me, it’s Fred. You’re alright.”

“C-christ, I…” He wasn’t quite sure what he’d intended to say, but in the end it hardly mattered. He burst into tears before he had a chance to really speak. 

“Alright, alright.” Fred murmured. His grip on the punk remained firm, and he continued to rock them back and forth while Vyvyan sobbed and whined. 

“I just keep  _ seeing  _ it.” Vyv said, “Every time I close my fucking eyes! I - I nearly saved you. If I hadn’t fallen over, if I’d managed to grab your stupid bloody jacket, you’d still be here.”

“I am here.” Fred replied. 

“It’s not the same! I want it to be. But-”

“I know. I  _ know _ , Snotface. I can’t...I can’t tell you how blimmin’ sorry I am.” He kissed the side of Vyv’s face again, barely aware of what he was doing, and for once Vyvyan continued to push the boundaries rather than simply reign them back in. He cupped Fred’s cheek and held him there, tracing his thumb over the patches of stubble by his cheekbone. 

“I miss you, poof. So much. Every bloody day.” 

Fred nodded, his hand still pressed against Vyv’s forehead. He was right at the edge of the punk’s hairline, his palm half-covered in sweat and gel. The spiked mohawk had softened into the fluffy curls Fred remembered from some long-ago time, and even though he couldn’t see it, he knew the ends were starting to turn blond once again. Metal studs dug into his skin, Vyv’s hand was warm and clammy against his cheek, and the heat that was being generated between them  _ should _ have been absolutely unbearable. Instead, it was heaven.

“...I love you, Vyv.” Fred mumbled, “I’m not supposed to, but...I can’t....it just sort of...I don’t-”

Vyvyan shifted so that they were facing each other, and his other hand went to the side of Fred’s neck. 

“Vyv’yan? Wh-what are you doing?”

“Just shut your girly mouth for a sec.” Vyv muttered before pressing their lips together. Immediately he felt a surge of guilt and betrayal, but pushed it back. This was too good to pass up. Fucking hell, it was better than he remembered. How could he ever possibly have doubted that this was Rick, that this was  _ his _ Rick? Nobody else kissed like this. Eager and uncertain and messy all at once, with hands that hovered timidly over his shoulders and those ridiculously long eyelashes that fluttered against Vyvyan’s cheeks. He threaded his fingers through Fred’s hair and tried not to think about the last time they’d done this, because  _ god knew _ if he did he’d start to sob like a girl. And Fred even  _ tasted _ the same - vodka and Benson & Hedges and the very faintest hint of strawberry licorice. Where had that come from? Some far away memory from when they were children - mostly forgotten but somehow recovered by the very depths of Vyv’s subconscious. A rainy day in Rick’s old room listening to Roxy and eating licorice sticks, and a stupid kiss that wouldn’t ever be repeated - not until they hit college, anyway. One of the happiest moments of Vyvyan’s young life, quite frankly, and yet somehow it had slipped his mind. Fred had given it back to him. Given  _ everything _ back to him, including Rick. And the overwhelming gratitude he felt was enough to get his eyes watering once again as he kept their mouths together, trying to force as much contact between them in case Fred suddenly and spontaneously disappeared. 

Finally, they separated. Fred pulled back, gasping for air, but he kept his hands on Vyv’s neck and stayed as close to him as possible. 

“... _ Ruddy heck _ .” Fred muttered.

“Fuck I’ve missed that.” Vyv grinned. He leaned in to pick up where they’d left off, but Fred pulled back once again. 

“...I…I  _ want _ to. But I don’t...I don’t remember. I don’t...I don’t know how.” 

Vyv cupped Fred’s cheek again, pressed their foreheads together.

“Yes you do.” He whispered, “I’ll show you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABOUT BLOODY TIME!!!


	19. A Cure for What Ails You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do we do when our update schedule goes to pot and we make our lovely fans wait far too long for the next chapter? We post several chapters in rapid succession, of course! Thanks so much to everyone for all your comments, kudos, and support - there's no way I would have continued this fic without it. According to my calculations, we're about two or three chapters away from the end...
> 
> Special thanks to Frankenbolt for giving me the permission to use Tulpatripidenze as the name for those nasty little green pills. It comes from her AMAZING Fred/Beetlejuice crossover Three Times Dead, which is super duper duper amazing and I'm sure you've all already read :)

_ “Well, this isn’t good at all.” Twiddle muttered as he leaned over his brother’s shoulder to get a better look at the observation monitor. _

_ “Isn’t it? Well, it is Fred’s first time, technically. One can’t expect him to remember everything right off the bat. Although, I have heard it’s a bit like riding a bicycle. They say you never forget how.” _

_ “Don’t be vulgar, Twee! You know exactly what I’m referring to. Oh, look. Turn that monitor off, would you? It doesn’t feel right spying on them during such an...intimate moment.” _

_ “Well, you’re the one who came all the way over here for a closer look.” Tweedle sighed as he flicked the off switch. “Personally, I don’t see the issue. Patient Zero is happy, Fred hasn’t been obliterated by those ghastly little green pills. It’s a job well done if you ask me.” _

_ “A job well done?! They’ve fallen in love, Twee! It goes against all possible IF regulations!” _

_ “In all fairness, they were already in love.” Tweedle pointed out, “And if you’re going to keep pacing like that, can you at least pick a different spot? You’re wearing a trench into the tiles.” _

_ Twiddle paused, took two steps to the right, then continued where he’d left off. _

_ “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? Fred’s never going to want to leave now. And this is hardly a permanent improvement in Patient Zero’s mental state. As soon as Fred is discharged he’ll fall back into the same slump.” _

_ “Possibly,” Tweedle muttered. _

_ “So what’s your solution? Hmm? Shall we allow Patient Zero to continue copulating with the imaginary man that lives inside his head?” _

_ “For the moment, yes. Until I think of a solution.” _

_ “This was the solution.” Twiddle groaned. _

_ “And it may still be…” _

*

“Coming to work with me this morning?” Vyv asked as he shook a few cornflake crumbs into a bowl and began to add the ketchup. Fred shook his head.

“Um...no. I’ve got...I’ve got some things I need to sort out.”

Vyv snorted, “What sort of things?”

“...Imaginary things.” Fred replied. He sat on the kitchen counter and began to swing his legs nervously, suddenly unable to quite meet the punk’s eyes.

“Right. Off to get tested for Imaginary VD?”

“What’s that?”

“Means diseases you get from shagging. Nevermind, you haven’t got any.”

“How do  _ you _ know?”

“Because I haven’t got any.” Vyv replied, “Besides, I’m a doctor aren’t I? We know all about shagging diseases.”

“Hmph.”

“So I’m on my own for once, am I? Thank Christ for that.”

“Ah, you don’t mean that, Snotface. As soon as I clear off out of here you’ll be  _ begging _ me to come back.”

“You’re probably right.” Vyv agreed. He kissed Fred’s forehead as he walked past and began to stuff his gob with cornflakes and ketchup, “Ironic, since you were the one doing the begging last night.”

“Oh  _ ha ha _ .” Fred sneered and flicked the V’s. “Well, if you’re heading out I might as well get going.”

“Yeah, go on, bugger off. You wouldn’t wanna be late for the imaginary bus. Or do you all take an imaginary carpool back to HQ?”

Another sneer, another flick of the V’s, and then Fred was gone in a flash of smoke, and Vyv was left alone in the kitchen. With a smirk, he scraped the last of his cornflakes into SPG’s cage, then made a fresh bowl for Petyr.

“Cornflakes are on the table, P!” Vyv yelled, “Don’t choke on them and die horribly, there’s a good fridge demon.”

Petyr emerged from the void to sit huddled on the kitchen table, and as soon as Vyvyan moved out the way they advanced and absorbed the cornflakes - bowl and all - through their hair.

“Right. I’m off then.” Vyv muttered. He took his keys off the hook by the door, sidestepped the dead werewolf in the entranceway and went out to the Anglia. Part of him wondered what Fred was off organising, but truthfully he didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to think about it, if he could help it. He was on the road by eight-thirty, and into the hospital carpark by nine. On-time for a shift? That had to be a world first. Even the nurses looked surprised to see him as he stepped through the automatic doors and clocked on. He smiled warmly at Nurse Dawn - well and truly scaring the bejesus out of her - and reached for his charts.

“Where do you need me?”

“Well, I know you don’t normally do clinic duties.”

“ _ Boring _ .” Vyv yawned.

“I know, but this woman’s requested you specifically. She’s adamant about it. Absolutely refuses to see  _ anybody _ else.” 

“Oh  _ no _ . It's not another bloody gynecological examination, is it? Because I don’t bloody do those anymore!”

During his early days in practise, Vyvyan had gained somewhat of a positive reputation for carrying out pap smears - quick, steady hands and a thorough disinterest in the female anatomy had made him rather popular with the ladies, but he’d hated every second of it.

“No, no. She’s here for her son.”

“Christ, alright then. I spose I’ll give her a once over. In the clinic, is she?”

“Right through there.”

“Brilliant.” 

Vyv took the chart Dawn was offering and made his way over to one of the private clinic rooms. Why the bloody hell anyone had specifically requested him was a mystery, but he had to admit he was a  _ bit _ curious.

“Morning, I’m Doctor Basterd.”

“Good morning.” The woman replied, and Vyv was so startled by her tone he had to take a step back in spite of himself. This woman, this uptight  _ crone _ of a woman with thin, pursed lips and an upturned nose, looked like the villain out of a children’s film in her pressed grey pantsuit with her hair neatly set. She reminded him of the headmistress he and Rick had been forced to put up with in primary school, and that thought alone was enough to make his blood run cold and his hands throb with the memory of a violent caning across the knuckles. 

“...Erm...what can I do for you?” Vyv cleared his throat and glanced at the chart, purely so he wouldn’t have to look her in the eye.

“I’m here about my son.” She nodded towards the boy sitting next to her - the boy Vyv hadn’t even  _ noticed _ , because he’d been too preoccupied with this absolute battle-axe of a mother - and then looked back at Vyvyan expectantly, as if her son’s mere presence should be an indication of his poor health.

“...He looks alright to me.” Vyv said, and he mostly meant it. The boy looked a little timid and a little bit pale - not unlike the way Vyvyan himself had looked as a mite - but not ill in any way. The boy smiled shyly, but kept his head down.

“He...sees things.” His mother continued, “...People who aren’t there.”

“Not people.” The boy muttered, “Just one. Vel-”

“ _ Matthew _ , what did I tell you about saying  _ that _ name?”

“Um…” Matthew shrugged, “...Don’t?”

“Exactly right.” His mother sighed, “I want you to put him on that medication. The one for childhood delusions. I understand not every doctor will sign off on it these days, and that you’re one of the few who still will.”

“ Tulpatripidenze?” Vyv balked, “Christ. That’s a tall order Mrs...erm…”

“Morrison.” She replied.

“Morrison. Heh. I knew a professor in college called -”

“Mr Morrison? A sociology professor?” Vyv nodded. “Ah yes. My  _ former _ husband.”

“Ah.” Vyv nodded, “Well listen, Mrs Morrison, Tulpatripidenze is a bloody strong drug to put a child onto. It’s really more of a last resort -”

“Well, I appreciate your concern Doctor - Bastard, was it? But I’m afraid this is a last resort sort of situation. The fact is that Matthew needs immediate psychiatric assistance, and it’s either this or some sort of...facility.”

“Both a bit drastic for an imaginary friend.” Vyv chuckled, “Everybody has them at some point, you know.”

“Not like this.” She said through gritted teeth, and Vyvyan couldn’t help but notice the slight smirk playing at the corners of Matthew’s mouth. 

“...Right. Well, erm...any Tulpatripidenze prescriptions I hand out require a one on one assessment, just as a precaution, you know. It’s heavy stuff we’re dealing with here, Mrs Morrison.”

“I’m well aware -”

“Brilliant. Then if you’d like to step outside for a minute, I’ll have a bit of a chat with Matthew and we’ll see how we go.”

“...Is that...really necessary?” She asked, “He can get a bit...boisterous, you see-”

“Ah, that’s alright. Boys will be boys n’ all that. I know something about brats causing trouble - he won’t throw anything at me that I haven’t seen before.” He shot Matthew a conspiratorial wink, “If you’d just piss- I mean... if you'd just,  _ go into the waiting room _ for a minute, I’ll call you back in when we need you, alright?”

“...Well, alright.” Mrs Morrison stood up, clutching her purse tightly to her chest the way the old spinsters did in the movies, and gave Matthew a warning look.  _ Be good _ , that look said.  _ For the love of god, be good _ .

As soon as she’d shut the door behind her, Vyvyan pulled his chair around to the other side of the desk and sat facing Matthew, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees. 

“...Want a lollipop?” Vyv asked as he reached for a jar on his desk, “Go on, have one. I won’t tell.”

Matthew took one from the jar with a trembling hand and Vyv followed suit before returning the jar to his desk. They unwrapped them in unison and ate in silence for a while. Vyvyan leaned back in his chair and put his boots up on the desk, hoping his smile came across as trusting rather than threatening.

“How old are you, skip?” He asked.

“Eight and a half.” Matthew replied. His voice was barely above a whisper, almost impossible to decipher from around the lollipop in his mouth. 

“And how long have you been seeing this...imaginary friend of yours?”

“I don’t know. A long time.”

“They here now?” Vyv asked, “Nah, stupid question, that. Course they are. You wouldn’t have smiled so much while your mum was walking, otherwise. Let’s try a better question - what’s their name?”

“...Velcro-head. His name’s Velcro-head”

“Not bad, not bad.” Vyv smiled, “...Mine’s called Fred. Drop Dead Fred. Ask your mate if he knows mine.”

Matthew paused for a moment, listening intently to a voice only he could hear.

“He says he does.”

“Small world. Look, I’m sure he knows all about the little green pills your mother wants you to go on, but if he doesn’t, he better bloody well learn fast. I’m the expert on them, after all. Been on them for more than half my life, on and off. And if you’re friend’s heard of Drop Dead Fred, then chances are he’s heard of me. Vyvyan Basterd. I’m  _ told _ they call me Patient Zero.”

Another pause, Matthew nodded, “...He says you’re a murderer. He's...he's crying, now.” 

“Good. So now we understand each other, and he knows I’m not buggering about. So listen close, zipper-face, or whatever the bloody hell your name is, because this is very, very important.”

“We’re listening.”

“Right. I’m not gonna put you on those pills, understand? They’re poison, those. Bloody dangerous things. But if I let you walk out of here today empty-handed, I can personally guarantee your mum’ll find a doctor who  _ will _ put you on them. Understand?”

“I think so.” Matthew crunched on the last piece of his lollipop and discarded his stick in the wastebasket.

“Have another one, if you want. The blue ones are good.” Vyv tossed his stick aside and reached for the jar again, “But my point is, skip, I’m gonna give you a prescription for something called a placebo. Know what that is?” 

“...Velcro says it’s a type of sausage.”

“No, that’s a chorizo. A placebo is fake medicine. It doesn’t do anything, it’s just made of sugar. But that means you’ll have to  _ pretend _ you can’t see Zippy anymore, okay? Otherwise she’ll know we’re just bullshitting. It should buy you a bit of time, and when I talk to your mum I might be able to get you a bit more, but it’s only gonna work if you two keep your heads down and try not to cause so much mayhem. And I  _ mean _ that. Have your fun by all means, but for Christ’s sake, don’t get caught. If you can do that, I’ll sort the rest. Deal?”

Matthew glanced in the general direction of Velcro-head. 

“...Should we trust him?” He paused, “...Okay. Deal.”

“Right. Let’s sign this off properly then.” Vyv stuck out his pinky and Matthew shook it with his. “I’ll go bring your mum in, shall I?”

“...I guess so.”

“Right. Unless… erm...your mum, she...she doesn’t hurt you or anything, does she?”

“Only with words.” Matthew replied. Vyv put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and forced a smile.

“...I wish there was something I could do about that. But...well. If she ever...if she ever hits you or anything, you come straight to the hospital, ask to see Doctor Basterd. Tell them it’s an emergency and that I’m expecting you, they’ll send you right though, okay?” 

“...Okay.”

“I’ll get your mum.” Vyv stood up, tore open the door to the clinic room and stuck his head into the corridor, “Mrs Morrison?! The doctor will see you now!”

Mrs Morrison was up in a shot, and practically bowled Vyvyan out of the way as she tore back into the room to sit beside her son. Vyv grinned, slammed the door behind her, and began to pace up and down the room in a stern, lopsided manner that almost resembled a goosestep. 

“Well? What’s the verdict? Can he have the...the…”

“Tulpatripidenze?” Vyv shook his head, “Oh, no. No, absolutely not. I’m afraid your son has a...very  _ severe _ case of erm… Imaginary Friend...itis.”

“Imaginary friend-itis?” Mrs Morrison frowned.

“Yeah. It’s a um...medical term.” Vyv waved a hand and continued to march, “Anyway, I’ve decided to prescribe a far stronger drug for the little blighter.”

“Oh? Well, that is a relief. He really is a severe case you know, Doctor Bastard. People said he’d grow out of this imaginary friend business, but I just  _ knew _ something wasn’t right. A mother  _ knows _ . But...well. I have to say, I didn’t know there  _ was _ anything stronger than tulpa...tulpa…”

“Tulpatripidenze. Yeah, well. We tend not to broadcast it, you know. Only for special cases.”

“Of course, of course. But you’ll write me a prescription?”

“Absolutely.” Vyv crossed over to his desk and picked up a pen, “I’m writing you a script for… erm...Stercusumate.”

“...Stercusumate?”

“Yeah. Take two pills, one in the morning and one at night for about four weeks.” He scrawled his signature across the bottom of the paper and handed it over to Mrs Morrison. “I’ll level with you here, love. These pills are quite new - they’ve only just been approved. I’m one of the few doctors who has any experience with this sort of treatment, so it might...well. It might be better if I handle Matthew’s treatment from now on.” 

“Oh, definitely. Definitely. I can’t thank you enough for this, Doctor Bastard. Really, I’m  _ so _ grateful. We wouldn’t dream of seeing anyone else to discuss Matthew’s care now that we’ve found you.”

“Ah, well. That’s very flattering. Now, you take this prescription and go see Nurse Dawn out there, and she’ll tell you where you need to go. And I’ll see you an’ Zipper face real soon, Matthew, okay?”

“It’s Velcro-head.” Matthew replied. Vyv shrugged, shot Mrs Morrison a knowing glance and tousled the boy’s hair. 

“Have a nice day, Doctor Bastard.” Mrs Morrison said as she and Matthew stood up to leave. 

“Cheers.” Vyv threw himself back into his desk chair and lit up a cigarette, putting his boots back up on the desk as the door closed behind them.

“Doctor Snotface, I presume!” Fred yelled, and teleported directly onto the centre of the desk, mere inches away from Vyvyan’s doc martens. 

“Jesus Christ!” Vyv groaned. With a smug grin, Fred leaned forward and plucked the cigarette from the punk’s mouth.

“No, just Fred. You’re still smoking these? Naughty, naughty - you’re a doctor, Vyv’yan. You ought to know better.”

“I just can’t bloody get rid of you, can I?” Vyv took another cigarette out of the packet and lit it, keeping a firm hold on it in case Fred decided to try and take it again. 

“Would you really want to?” Fred asked, “...That was a nice thing you just did, you know. Really, really nice. Sickeningly nice, even.”

“Yeah, well. It hardly makes up for all the imaginary friends I’ve killed over the past two and a half decades or so, does it?”

“You were a kid, Vyv. You didn’t know any better. Hey, did I used to smoke these?”

“No.” Vyv lied, “And you’re not about to start now. Give us that.”

Fred shrugged and flicked it into the nearby ashtray. “You're quite good with kids."

"I should bloody well hope so! I was a pediatrician before you kicked the bucket."

"Were you really? Why'd you stop?"

"Because the best doctors I ever had growing up were the fun ones. The ones who weren't so serious all the bloody time. And after you snuffed it...well. I wasn't so much fun anymore. And I figured since I'd already witnessed the most horrific, gruesome thing I could ever possibly see, I might as well work in Accident and Emergency. It wasn't exactly going to be any worse than your brains all over the pavers, was it?" 

Fred grimaced, looked away, and hoped Vyv couldn't tell how uncomfortable he felt at the mention of his own grizzly death. "...So what happens now? They just go to the chemists and get those...what did you call them? Placebos?”

“Yeah. Chemist’ll have some sugar pills they can put in. I wrote out what goes on the label, so they’ll just follow that really. Standard practise. More common than you think.”

“Hmm.” Fred nodded, only very vaguely interested in all this bizarre hospital gibberish, “...Stercusumate, hey?”

“Yeah.” Vyv grinned, “It’s a bit of good luck, really. I never thought taking first-year Latin in college would come to anything useful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are interested, Stercusumate was a word I made up stemming from the Latin word for compost, or dung - stercus. And the word mate, which sounds...mediciney. Essentially, Matthew's pills are bullshit. 
> 
> Oh, and another special thanks to Frankenbolt for the lovely headcanon many of us have adopted about Vyvyan being a pediatrician. I'm pretty sure she mentioned it coming from some interview with Ade or something, but she gave the inspo, so she gets the credit :3


	20. Fred Makes a Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's finally back on schedule, hehe.

_ “Rick, why is there a great hulking piano in the middle of the drawing-room?” Vyvyan asked with a yawn. Still dressed in his pajamas, he’d made the slow and arduous descent from their shared bedroom down to the kitchen in search of some breakfast. Rick glanced up from his spot at the kitchen table, where he was skimming through Oscar Wilde’s Poems in Prose and trying to look important. _

_ “Isn’t there always a great hulking piano in the middle of the drawing-room?” Rick asked.  _

_ “...Not to my recollection, no.” Vyv sighed and kissed the top of the poet’s head as he walked past, “Could it be that my horribly annoying and girly boyfriend decided they haven’t heard me play piano in a tremendously long time, and brought one in from Christ knows where just to make me play?” _

_ “...Possibly.” Rick replied. _

_ “Right. And I spose you have a request or something, do you?” _

_ “No. Whatever you like, Vyv.” _

_ “Whatever I like.” Vyv muttered, “Whatever I bloody well like. How kind of you, Rick.” _

_ But despite his complaints, he sat down at the piano without much resistance. Ran his fingers over the keys, played a few experimental notes. It seemed alright. Rick got up from the table and wandered over while Vyv cleared his throat, wracking his brains for something he knew well. _

_ “You don’t expect me to try and teach you again, do you?” _

_ “Maybe.” _

_ “Rick, last time I tried to teach you to play piano I put your head through the bloody wall!” _

_ “That was entirely different, Vyvyan! I was only eleven! I’m much more mature now, you know.” _

_ “Course you are. Alright, sit down then.” Vyvyan pushed the bench backwards and patted his lap, which was not quite how their lessons had gone as children, but was bound to be far more enjoyable. Rick sat down immediately, grinning from ear to ear as jittery fingers ran across the keys. _

_ “Cor, you’ve put on a few, haven’t you?” Vyv said as he leaned forward to kiss the back of Rick’s neck, “Weigh a bloody tonne, you do.” _

_ “Oh, shut up.” Rick giggled.  _

_ “S’alright, Rick. You know what they say about those fat bottomed girls. They make the rockin’ world go round’.” _

_ “Stop it immediately, Vyvyan, or I shall be forced to tell everyone you know the lyrics to a Queen song.” _

_ “Try it, and I’ll tell everyone you love Roxy Music more than Cliff Richard.” _

_ “I do not!” Rick snapped, “Look, just play something would you?” _

_ “I will if you keep your bloody hands still.” Vyvyan grabbed onto Rick’s hands and held them in place before they could continue their aimless rampage across the keyboard. “Right. Pay attention. I’m gonna show you the chords once, slowly, and then we’ll play.” _

_ “Alright, I’m watching.” _

_ Vyv gently guided Rick’s fingers over the keys as slowly as possible, hoping that Rick at least had some concept of basic memory.  _

_ “Got that?” He asked. Rick nodded. _

_ “Think so…” The poet paused, “Sing it to me this time. It’ll go in my head better.” _

_ “Christ you’re demanding.” Vyv muttered, but cleared his throat anyway.  _

_ Take a look at my girlfriend, _

_ She’s the only one I got _

_ Not much of a girlfriend, _

_ Never seem to get a lot. _

_ Rick’s fingers stumbled slightly, mucked up one of the major chords. Vyv recovered it nicely with a free hand and carried it through so that the error was almost unnoticeable, earning him the same look of unbridled awe that had made him weak in the knees as a teenager. _

_ Take a jumbo, _

_ Cross the water _

_ Like to see America _

_ See the girls in _

_ California _

_ I’m hoping it’s going to come true _

_ But there’s not a lot I can do _

_ His hands dropped off the keys at the same moment his voice trailed off, and he was left feeling embarrassed while Rick frantically scrambled to find the right chords. _

_ “Why did you stop?” Rick whined, “I was only just getting the hang of it.” _

_ “Because it’s a poofy song and I hate that I know it.” Vyv replied. “And you weren’t getting the bloody hang of it at all!” _

_ “Do Stairway to heaven, then, if you hate the song so much.”  _

_ “I don’t bloody know stairway to heaven! It’s Neil’s stupid hippie music!” _

_ “Liar.”  _

_ “You don’t even like Led Zeppelin!” _

_ “I do when you play.” Rick replied, “Go on, Vyv. I’ll make it worth your while.” _

_ “..If I do stairway to heaven will you stop bloody nagging to me play piano?” _

_ “No. But I’ll do that...thing you like.” _

_ “...Which thing?” Vyv asked. He could have sworn Rick was wriggling about in his lap on purpose. _

_ “You know perfectly well which thing. That thing with my tongue and your ear, and my hand and your left knee-” _

_ Vyv’s hands were back on the keys in an instant, playing the opening riff to Stairway with the practised expertise of a master pianist while Rick looked on in absolute awe. Whenever he thought he couldn’t possibly love Vyvyan any more than he already did, something happened that made him fall for the punk all over again. And watching Vyv draw out every note with startling precision made him so giddy with adoration that he had to put a hand over his mouth to hide the grin that spread across his face. Vyv took it up to the very start of the chorus and then stopped once again, pausing to plant another kiss on the back of Rick’s neck. _

_ “There. Happy?” Vyvyan asked, and once again it seemed that Rick was wriggling around in his lap on purpose. _

_ “That was brilliant!” Rick grinned, “Now do Summer Holiday.” _

_ “Bloody tease.” Vyv sighed, but his hands went back to the keys anyway.  _

*

“Ah, Fred! What can we do for you today?” Tweedle asked as Fred stormed into the office and took a seat behind the desk. 

“Tell me you’re here to request a reassignment.” Twiddle sighed.

“No.” Fred replied. His stern expression and short, clipped responses left both brothers on edge. 

“...Alright.” Twiddle coughed, “Then why  _ are _ you here?”

“I’ve got a proposition for you.” Fred said, “I want you to make me a deal.”

“...We don’t really...make  _ deals _ with IFs, Fred.” Tweedle mumbled, “It’s...against company policy.”

“I’m sure it is, but I’m Drop Dead fucking Fred, and I’ve been carrying this bloody department for six years now, haven’t I? Got you out of more jams than you’d care to admit. Impeccable record, one hundred percent success rate, the only one to ever make any sort of progress with Patient bloody Zero, and not to mention the bang up job I did on the Cronin incident. So I think you’ll make an exception, Twee. I really think you will when I tell you what I want.”

“Fred, please. This is highly unprofessional -” Tweedle was about to cite the necessary clauses and considerations of IF Department policy, but in a surprising turn of events it was  _ Twiddle _ who held up his hand and regarded Fred with interest.

“I’m intrigued.” Twiddle replied, “I might not have wanted this assignment for you in the first place, Fred, but goodness knows I want it sorted as quickly as possible. And you’re right, you know. We owe a lot to you - you’ve saved our skin more than once. I’m sure...some exceptions can be made in light of your exemplary efforts. Pitch us your deal, and we’ll see what we can do, alright?” 

Fred grinned, leaned back in his chair and put his boots up on the desk.

“Right. This is what I want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....What are you doing, Fred? Also, the song mentioned in this fic is Breakfast in America by Supertramp. At some point I'm going to have to do a playlist of every song in this fic....


	21. All Good Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
> .......  
> ............Look, I'm really sorry, alright?? Put your pitchforks down - I didn't like this any more than you did. 
> 
> On a lighter note, one of my very loveliest of Scumbag friends drew some incredible fanart of an earlier, much lighter moment in which Fred and Vyv go through old pictures of themselves back when Fred was still Rick. So I've included that at the very end to make things a bit lighter XD if you like their stuff, you can find them on tumblr @ serenpop or @ pols-doodles - which you should totally do cause they're mega-talented and I love them dearly!

_“What do you think?” Twiddle asked. He’d chewed his fingernails down to nothing, and was quickly unlacing his shoes to have a crack at his toes._

_“I think it’s a reasonable request.”_

_“Reasonable? Reasonable?! You can’t be serious!”_

_“Ensuring the prolonged happiness of his charge is hardly an unprecedented desire in imaginary friends, Twid.”_

_“Yes, but not all charges are patient bloody zero!”_

*

It was getting to that time. 

Fred knew it. He could _feel_ it. In the weeks since his initial arrival, Vyvyan’s mood had improved dramatically (if not a little gradually, but that was hardly unexpected. Nobody said rehabilitating patient zero would be easy.) There were no more violent outbursts of spiraling grief. No more sick days from work. He even seemed to be _enjoying_ his job again, as he drifted out of ER shifts to see more clinic patients - a gradual return to the pediatric work that had brought him so much joy and excitement in the first place. The punk ate more than once a day, bathed semi-regularly, and laughed on a daily basis. By all accounts, he was better. Blimmin’ heck, he even spoke to Mike and Neil more often. In terms of IF criteria, Fred had ticked almost every box. Mood improvement, strengthened support network, a better sense of self-worth. 

And consequently, their connection was beginning to fade.

Fred had to really concentrate in order to teleport himself to Vyvyan’s location these days, and more and more places beyond the sharehouse were being locked off. He could no longer accompany Vyv to work, even if he wanted to. The pub, the shops. It was a strain to even get out into the garden anymore. And if the connection was being severed, and Vyvyan was becoming more and more independent, then...

“...Vyv?” 

Vyvyan looked up from his spot on the sofa and grinned at Fred, who was leaning against the doorframe with a sullen look on his face.

“Recognise this cassette?”

“Um...No. Should I?”

“Well, you’re the one who made it. Roxy Music, the Smiths, the Human League, Kate Bush, and absolutely _no_ Cliff Richard.” The punk snickered, “Bit of a girly romantic gesture, really.”

“...We need to have a chat, Snotface.”

“Oh, Christ. What have you done now?” Vyv sat up and tossed his book to one side, motioning for Fred to come and sit down with a wave of his hand. 

“Nothing.” Fred jumped up and sat on the arm of the sofa with his shoes on the cushions. “Well, unless you count clogging the toilet with washing up liquid.”

“ _Again_?” Vyv rolled his eyes and put his hand on Fred’s knee. These affectionate gestures were the norm, now. A natural part of their rapidly developing relationship; one Fred would miss terribly.

“I dunno. I thought it might work a bit better this time. Be a bit more like the luxurious hamster bubble bath I envisioned, and less like...well. Less like a toilet clogged up with detergent.” Fred smiled apologetically, and one hand went to pluck some lint of Vyvyan’s jeans.

“Right. And that’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No, no.” Fred grimaced. His stomach twisted painfully as he tried to find the words.

“...Poof?” Vyv leaned forward, “What’s happened?”

“I...I have to go away. Soon. Very soon, actually.”

“For how long?” Vyv asked. Fred raised his eyebrows. “...You don’t...you’re coming _back_ , aren’t you? You’re gonna come back.”

“...It doesn’t really work like that, Snotface.” Fred slid down onto the couch, his back against the arm, and took Vyv’s hands in his. “Imaginary friends don’t really, get to come back once their charges are better.”

“But I’m not better! I’m not anywhere near close to bloody better!”

“You’re going out, seeing friends. You’re enjoying your job. You’re...you’re happy.” Fred smiled, “That’s my job done, really.”

“I’m only better because you’re here!” Vyv gripped onto Fred’s hands as tight as he could, as though this would somehow prevent him from leaving. He could feel tears beginning to form, hear the weak crackle in his voice, and tried very hard to keep his emotions in check.

“You’ll be alright, Vyv’yan. I know it doesn’t feel like it -”

“I can’t do it without you, poof! You bloody well know I can’t.”

“No, I know you _can_ . D’you remember when you told me how much you _hated_ it when people tell you what Rick would have wanted? Well, I’m going to blimmin’ well tell you what he would have wanted, because I know better than anyone.” He paused to free one of his hands and press it against Vyv’s cheek - warm and rough with stubble, uneven from old acne scars. “I want you to _live_ , Vyv’yan. Not just survive, not just go through the bloody motions. I want you to have the life I never got to have. I want you to meet new people, make friends. Go to work, look after our godchildren, go to the pub with Mike and Neil. We got a bit of extra time together, you and me, and that was pretty bloody fortunate. I know it isn’t enough. I know it isn’t fair. But for Cliff’s sake, don’t you _dare_ throw your life away just because I’m not here to spend it with you. You only get one.”

“I don’t want it.” Vyv replied, and finally the tears came. They trickled down his face in messy, uneven streaks and fell onto his jeans to pool into mismatched wet patches. Fred wiped a few away with his thumb and bit the inside of his cheek to try and keep from sobbing. 

“Well, that’s just tough. I want you to have it. And I’ll see you on the other side, hey? It’s only another seventy years or so. Might even be less than that. You never know - you might get struck by lightning or something.”

Vyv snickered a little, but it immediately turned into another ugly sob. This couldn’t be happening. Not again, not so bloody soon. 

“I’ve - I’ve only just got you back! I can’t...I can’t lose you again.”

“I’m not gone, Vyv. I won’t _be_ gone. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Off helping other kids.” Vyv muttered, “What if someone goes on Tulpatripidenze? What then? You die, and I never find out? I’m just supposed to be worried sick about you for the rest of my life, am I?”

“You’re my last charge, Vyv. Lucky number fifty. I’m all done now. Retired, me. Off to claim my big reward and sit on a beach in paradise for the next few decades or so.” He forced a smile, kissed the back of Vyv’s hand, and hoped the punk wouldn’t pick up on the lie. “So that’s something, isn’t it?”

“I spose.” Vyv shrugged.

“...Listen, I’ve...I’ve sort of made a bit of a deal, Vyv.”

“Oh yeah?” The punk wiped his eyes, sniffled, tried to pull himself together. This was stupid, it was so stupid. He was a pediatrician by trade, for Christ’s sake! Kids grew out of their imaginary friends. He knew Fred had had other charges. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him, really. What did he _think_ was going to happen?!

“Yeah. Well, in the afterlife, you’re allowed to sort of...observe your loved ones. See how they’re going.”

“Right. So I spose if I talk to you and that, you’ll be able to hear me.”

“Yeah! But see, the deal I made was that sometimes - not very often, mind - but sometimes, I’ll be able to...send you little messages. Leave you notes and stuff. Just little ones, just so you know I’m alright.” Fred paused, “Oh, look. I know it doesn’t _sound_ very impressive, but it goes against all possible DIF guidelines and regulations -”

“No no! That’d...that’d be great, poof. Bloody brilliant. I’d...I’d really like that.” Vyv smiled. Something between them seemed to stir, quiver, and then sever. Rapidly and unceremoniously, like a threat cut with a dull knife. That imaginary friend connection, the one that bound them together so effectively, was gone. Vyv felt the air rush out of his lungs as his stomach dropped with dread and anticipation, and Fred couldn’t hold back his tears any longer. 

“...Don’t go, Rick.” Vyv mumbled. 

“I don’t want to. Believe me, I’d stay if I could.” They both stood up simultaneously in order to get closer to one another, with Vyv wrapping his arms around Fred’s waist while Fred threaded his fingers through the punk’s hair. “But remember what I said, Snotface. Live your life, yeah? Promise me.”

“Don’t go yet. You can stay a bit longer, can’t you? Just for a bit? Just tonight.”

“You felt it go.” Fred replied, “Once the connection cuts out, I don’t have much time.”

Some song Fred recognised kicked in on the cassette player - one he’d heard ten thousand times in between the time it came out and his unfortunate demise. Kate Bush, obviously, because he and Vyv both fancied her. 

_And if I only could_

_I'd make a deal with God_

_And I'd get him to swap our places_

_Be running up that road_

_Be running up that hill_

_Be running up that building…_

“...You have my express permission to marry Kate Bush if the opportunity arises.” Fred mumbled into Vyv’s shoulder.

“Poof, if the opportunity arises, I’ll do it with or without your bloody permission.”

“Bastard.” Fred grinned, “...I love you, you know.”

“Love you too. More than anything. Christ...Christ. I just…I can’t find the words.” He chuckled, sobbed, “Erm...Rick?”

“Hm?”

“If you...when you see your parents. In the afterlife. Can you...tell them I miss them, yeah? If they’re still speaking to me, I mean. They might be a bit pissed over me shagging you senseless.”

“I’ll give them your love.” Fred grinned.

“I didn’t say that-”

“No, but it’s what you meant. And I’m sure they won’t mind about the shagging.” There was another persistent tug, one that hit them both squarely in the chest. Vyvyan’s hold on Fred’s waist tightened considerably, but they both knew it wouldn’t do any good. “It’s time, Vyv’yan.”

“...I don’t want you to go.”

“I know, but you’ll be alright. I promise, Vyv. It’ll be alright.” He leaned back, pressed their foreheads together, “Just kiss me, and say Drop Dead Fred.”

“I can’t.” Vyv sobbed.

“Yes you can.” Fred tilted his chin up gently, “It’s not a goodbye, love. Not really. More of a...see you later. You can do it, I know you can. Just kiss me. It’s just a kiss, that’s all. Just a kiss.”

Vyv put his hand on the back of Fred’s neck and forced their mouths together, cutting off a choked sob as his tongue swiped across Fred’s lower lip and his studs dug into his forehead. Something imperceptible seemed to shift between them, but both of them ignored it, knowing that whatever it was couldn’t possibly be good. Fred kept his fingers wound around Vyv’s hair, his other hand on the punk’s cheek. This would be their last kiss for christ only knew how long, and he wanted to savour it. Hold onto it. Keep it with him forever as he went on to maintain his side of Twee and Twid’s bargain. God knew he’d need the reminder. 

He pulled back first, knowing Vyv wouldn’t dare, and forced another smile to try and get the punk to cooperate.

“...I can’t say it.” Vyv whispered.

“Yes you can.”

“...Will it hurt?”

“Leaving you? More than anything. But saying my name won’t hurt, Vyv. I wouldn’t mind hearing it one last time.”

“...Rick Pratt.” Vyv muttered. Fred smirked, dipped down to steal another kiss.

“I needed that. But do it properly now. Head office’ll have my head on a stick if I hang around here longer than I’m supposed to.”

Vyv whimpered, cleared his throat. “...Drop Dead Fred.” 

Fred threw his arms around the punk and clung to him as tight as he could, even though he could already feel himself beginning to fade away. “Thank you, Vyv. For everything.”

And it didn’t hurt. Not exactly. Not in the way Vyv had worried it would. To Fred it felt like a vast emptiness - the sense of being dismantled and put back together, but without one crucial piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SAID I WAS SORRY!!!!
> 
> Once again, massive thank you to @ serenpop / pols-doodles - they are so talented and incredible and I'm so flattered that they actually took the time to DRAW fanart - that's amazing!!! We have one chapter left to go guys, but I'm afraid we won't be seeing any more of Fred and Vyv together. Their time (at least in this life) is done. But we will get to see how Vyv copes from now on, and find out exactly what sort of deal Fred made, and where he'll end up...
> 
> Thanks so much guys - see you soon!!


	22. Twice in Every Lifetime

_ “Ah, Fred! What can we do for you today?” Tweedle asked as Fred stormed into the office and took a seat behind the desk.  _

_ “Tell me you’re here to request a reassignment.” Twiddle sighed. _

_ “No.” Fred replied. His stern expression and short, clipped responses left both brothers on edge.  _

_ “...Alright.” Twiddle coughed, “Then why are you here?” _

_ “I’ve got a proposition for you.” Fred said, “I want you to make me a deal.” _

_ “...We don’t really...make deals with IFs, Fred.” Tweedle mumbled, “It’s...against company policy.” _

_ “I’m sure it is, but I’m Drop Dead fucking Fred, and I’ve been carrying this bloody department for six years now, haven’t I? Got you out of more jams than you’d care to admit. Impeccable record, one hundred percent success rate, the only one to ever make any sort of progress with Patient bloody Zero, and not to mention the bang-up job I did on the Cronin incident. So I think you’ll make an exception, Twee. I really think you will when I tell you what I want.” _

_ “Fred, please. This is highly unprofessional -” Tweedle was about to cite the necessary clauses and considerations of IF Department policy, but in a surprising turn of events it was Twiddle who held up his hand and regarded Fred with interest. _

_ “I’m intrigued.” Twiddle replied, “I might not have wanted this assignment for you in the first place, Fred, but goodness knows I want it sorted as quickly as possible. And you’re right, you know. We owe a lot to you - you’ve saved our skin more than once. I’m sure...some exceptions can be made in light of your exemplary efforts. Pitch us your deal, and we’ll see what we can do, alright?”  _

_ Fred grinned, leaned back in his chair and put his boots up on the desk. _

_ “Right. This is what I want.” _

_ “We’re all ears.” _

_ “I want to be able to contact Vyv after I leave him. I’m not asking for anything big, just...let me write a note on the bathroom mirror sometimes. Leave him little notes or something. Just so he knows I’m alright. That I’m listening.” _

_ “That’s...that’s a very tall order, Fred.” Tweedle leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I don’t know that we could ever get the afterlife department to agree to something like that.” _

_ “I’ll make it worth your while.” Fred replied, “I’m not stupid. I know I won’t get something for nothing, even if I am Drop Dead Fred.” _

_ “I see. And what do we get in return for allowing you to break every possible afterlife regulation?” Twiddle sighed and took a mouthful of tea from the mug on his desk. He was getting far too old for all of this...excitement. _

_ “Let me take the problem kids. The green pill users. The ones you’ve got on the books that still need IF counseling.” _

_ Twiddle spat his tea out, spraying a fine mist of dark brown liquid all over the table, chairs, and Fred, while Tweedle’s entire jaw fell off his face and dropped to the floor. _

_ “Fred, that’s suicide!” Twiddle half wailed, “If you take on the green pill children, you  _ will _ be killed sooner or later. I can personally guarantee it.” _

_ “I dunno that I will. I haven’t so far, have I? Elizabeth Cronin, Patient Zero. If anyone’s up to the challenge, it’s got to be Drop Dead Fred.” _

_ “Yes, well. Be that as it may -” Twiddle leaned across the desk to help his brother reattach his jaw. _

_ “No, not be that as it bloody may. I haven’t asked for much from you lot over the years, have I? You know as well as I do that Vyv won’t last five minutes without me checking in on him. I’m asking you to help me do you a favour, in return for doing you another fucking favour! So go clear it with head office, because you know they’ll bloody well say yes, and I’ll go tell Vyv’yan the good news. Because I’m not about to leave him on his own for the next seventy blimmin’ years, alright? I left him alone far too long the first time.” _

_ “Fred -” Tweedle began, but Fred held up his hand. _

_ “Not up for debate, Tweedle dumb and Twiddle dumber. Get it sorted, alright? I’ve got to get home to Vyv.” _

_ And with that he was gone. He disappeared in a flash of green smoke, leaving Twee and Twid alone in their shared office to stew on the vast catastrophe unfolding before their eyes.  _

_ “...I...think I’d better call head office.” Tweedle muttered as he reached for the phone. _

_ “Yes. Yes, I think you’d better.” _

_ * _

_ “So...What do you think?” Twiddle asked. He’d chewed his fingernails down to nothing, and was quickly unlacing his shoes to have a crack at his toes. It had been hours since they last spoke to each other. Sat in the office side by side, they’d struggled to find the words. The fact that “what do you think” was the best Twiddle could come up with was no doubt a testament to their current mood.  _

_ “I think it’s a reasonable request.” _

_ “Reasonable? Reasonable?! You can’t be serious!” _

_ “Ensuring the prolonged happiness of his charge is hardly an unprecedented desire in imaginary friends, Twid.” _

_ “Yes, but not all charges are patient bloody zero!” _

_ “Well, I don’t know that we have much of a choice.” Tweedle sighed, “If we give Fred what he wants, he’ll be discorporated into the void by the end of the year. Drop Dead Fred or not, those kids’ll eat him alive.” _

_ “Oh, I’m aware. He only made so much progress with Patient Zero because of the soulmate connection, you know. For heaven’s sake, Patient Zero’s the reason  _ why _ we no longer send multiple IFs to a green pill charge! Fred doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.” _

_ “...Which is why I think we should go with my suggestion.” Tweedle muttered. _

_ “Which goes against even more regulations than Fred’s initial request!” _

_ “Head Office approved, didn’t they?” _

_ “Only because they don’t have to fill out the paperwork!” Twiddle looked at his wrist mournfully, “I’ll never write again, after this. You know that, don’t you?” _

_ “What would you prefer? Fred’s discorporation and the subsequent destruction of the fabric of reality as Vyvyan’s soul tries to reach him?” _

_ “Of course not!”  _

_ “Then stop whining and get to work! We might as well get a jump on it now - that way we might be done by the end of the century.” _

*

...And it didn’t hurt. Not exactly. Not in the way Vyv worried it would. To Fred it felt like a vast emptiness - the sense of being dismantled and put back together, but without one crucial piece. 

He expected to open his eyes and find himself in the IF department. He hoped for a brief lunch in the break room before they sent him to the slaughter - time to send Vyvyan a quick message before he got down to work. 

What he didn’t expect was the sudden rush of all his old memories.

The sudden burst of Rick-ness that completely and utterly blindsided him, came out of nowhere and tore him inside out, combing with his Fred-ness to make some sort of complete entity. A vessel that was both Rick  _ and _ Fred. Frederick, if you like. The brief memories that had once seemed foggy and out of reach were suddenly abundantly clear. It didn’t  _ feel _ like he was traversing someone else’s subconscious. It felt like he was exploring his own. And if he thought he loved Vyv before,  _ Cliff _ . He didn’t have any bloody idea.

He felt the waves of affection, love and adoration that came from decades upon decades of companionship, of knowing someone inside and out. He saw the punk’s flaws, accepted them, loved them. Filed them away in boxes and treasured every one. He saw their fights, both as kids and as college students, and finally as lovers. Their good times, going down to the beach with his parents, trying to rob a bank in college, spending entire Sundays curled up in bed. Their bad times, walking out of the church at Rick’s parents funeral, clinging to each other as they fought against the rain. Going down to the pub hand in hand, facing up against Vyv’s mother. Getting kicked out for being poofs, walking home and stopping at the chip shop because some things just weren’t  _ fair _ , but most of them could be solved with a hot meal. Looking at the flat in Croydon. Eating cornflakes at the table in nothing but their Y fronts. The unspoken agreement that they would spend the rest of their lives together. The love that flourished between them, always, even when they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. 

It took his breath away. He stumbled, fell, but Vyvyan was there to steady him.

Vyvyan.

Because he hadn’t  _ been _ transported back to head office. He was still in the sharehouse, still in Vyv’s arms. The same, but not the same.

Because when he looked down at his clothes, he found they weren’t  _ his _ . His green blazer had been replaced with a plain black one, covered in ridiculous political badges. His pants were black, his shirt grey. At the very edge of his peripheral vision, there was a faint green tinge in his hair. His still  _ orange _ hair, true. That was about the only thing that seemed to have suck. But even that came with a style change - not just the tiny pigtails he’d been sporting for weeks, but a shorter, spiked appearance. Vyv opened his eyes and looked at him in awe, and Fred stared back.

“...Vyv?” He whispered.

“....Rick?”

“I’m...I’m still...still here. I don’t...why am I still here?!”

“I dunno. Why...why are you dressed like...what’s…”

“I don’t know.” Fred muttered, “I don’t…”

He pulled back from Vyvyan to find an envelope in his hand, crisp and clean, made of that thick, expensive official looking paper. He ripped the wax seal apart with trembling hands while Vyv looked on in wonder, still clinging on to Fred’s arm with both hands.

“What is it?” Vyv asked. Fred shook his head.

“It’s...from my bosses. Twee and Twid.”

_ Dear Drop Dead Fred (Or should we call you Rick?) _

_ After much debate, your request for prolonged contact with Vyvyan Basterd in exchange for a lengthened sentence has been denied. This was not an easy decision to make, but was largely spurred on by the knowledge that you and Basterd would likely rip apart the entire fabric of reality in order to get back to one another, in the very likely event of a discorporation. _

_As both a compromise and a thank you for six years of dedicated, impeccable service, the afterlife department has approved your permanent return to earth. In the manilla folder that has been delivered to your Codrington Road address, you will find a birth certificate, passport, all other forms of legal documentation, a degree in sociology as earned by Frederick Flashheart_ _Pratt, a qualification in the area of childcare and education (it seems only fair) and a printed resume detailing the last six years of your employment, complete with references._

_ However, as we are sure you well know, the afterlife department does not grant favours of this magnitude lightly. In return for this remarkable opportunity, you and Basterd will be required to serve an additional 50 charge sentence at the Department for Imaginary friends following your departure from the earth realm. However, it may interest Basterd to know that Tulpatripidenze first hit the market for the treatment of “imaginary friend-itis” in the mid 1970s. Due to a shortage in staff, you will be sent back prior to this time, in order to assist us in clearing our historical backlog. We trust this will not be an issue, and that you will both carry out this sentence to the impeccable standards you established for yourself as Drop Dead Fred.  _

_ We hope that you will make use of the time that has been given to you, and wish you the best of luck in all future endeavours. (And make sure you look both ways before you cross the street. Those lorries can come out of nowhere) _

_ Best wishes,  _

_ Tweedle and Twiddle _

_ Afterlife Department for Imaginary Friends _

“...I don’t understand.” Vyv muttered. Fred looked at him, then glanced up the stairs.

“...SPECIAL PATROL GROUP!” They yelled in unison, clutching each other tightly as they waited desperately for a response.

Silence. Of course. This was all some sort of sick joke. Fred should have known.

“...Aye?!” SPG called back. Vyv’s grip on Fred’s arm tightened. 

“...Erm...dinner!” Vyv called. 

“Aye.” 

A few moments later, SPG appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He glanced at Fred, then Vyv, then continued his walk to the kitchen. Then stopped, and did a double take.

“...Rick?”

“SPG? You...you can see me?”

“Aye! Clear as day. Are ye a bloody ghost?!”

Fred ran across the room, took the hamster in his hands and clutched the tiny ball of fluff to his chest. He fell to his knees, burst into tears, and quickly entered into some sort of hysterical crying/laughing fit as Vyv ran over and took them both in his arms. 

“You can see me.” He sniffled, “You can see me. I’m back. You can see me.”

“What does this mean?” Vyv asked, “You’re...I get you back? Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Fred grinned, “...I think you better start working on your imaginary friend persona, Vyv.”

Vyv craned his neck, smiling like a lunatic, and bent to kiss his boyfriend’s forehead.

“Yeah. Yeah, I reckon I better.”

“Erm...do either of ye want te tell me what the bloody hells goin on?” The hamster asked. But he never did get a straight answer. Just more scratches behind the ears and carrots on his dinner, and a spot on Fred’s pillow at night. 

*

“He’s late again.” Neil mumbled. He shifted slightly in his seat, leaning back against the bench in the booth and shifting slightly to better accommodate the squirming baby in his arms. Beside him, Gem and Rosie continued to colour in the paper placemat they’d been given with cheap, waxy crayons, while on the other side of the both Mike sat back with young Rick on his knee.

“He’s always late.” Mike replied, “What did you expect? Frankly I’m just glad he asked us here in the first place.”

“It’s a good sign.” Gem agreed, “But I wish he’d hurry up. S’almost past Rosie’s bedtime.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to keep the sprog up past her bedtime.” Vyv replied, “God forbid.”

“Uncle Vyv!” Rosie and Rick squealed simultaneously and leaped into the punk’s arms. He grabbed them both, spun them around with a grin. 

“Alright you little blighters? What have you been up to, hey? Anarchy, madness and mayhem? Giving your mum and dad hell?”

“Hi, Vyv.” Neil smiled, “You’re looking well.”

“Well, I should blimmin’ well hope so.”

The voice came from somewhere behind the walls of the booth, and brought everyone up short. Mike and Neil exchanged a glance. A silent look of  _ Did you also just hear that, or am I going mad? _

Fred answered their questions by stepping into view, smiling triumphantly in his yellow dungarees and very best grey shirt. 

“ _ God _ , you lot got old, didn’t you? You look absolutely blimmin’  _ awful _ .”

“...Gem, like, what did you put in those brownies?” Neil mumbled. Gem shook her head.

“Who’s this?” Rosie asked. Vyv grinned.

“This is your uncle Rick. Well, your uncle Fred. Your uncle Frederick, really, I spose.”

“Oh.” Young Rick replied, rapidly assimilating this new bit of information with whatever he’d previously known about his dead uncle. Children were good like that. Adaptable little buggers. 

“Do you like colouring?” Rosie asked. Fred’s eyes widened.

“Colouring in?! It’s only my absolute  _ favourite _ bloody thing to do!” He took Rosie from Vyv’s arms and sat down next to Gem, sorting through the crayons and chatting to the girl about the good work she’d already done. Vyv sat down across from him, next to Mike, still grinning from ear to ear. 

“This is it.” Mike muttered. “My mind’s finally going.”

“Oh, heavy.” Neil whined, “Rick’s like, come back as some sort of poltergoost.”

“I’m...Rick.” Fred added, turning to Gem. “Or...Fred. I’m...not really sure how all this works at the moment. Whatever you ah, want to call me is fine.”

“...G-Gemini.” She muttered, “You...can call me Gem. I don’t...I don’t really know how this all works, either. But um...I’ve heard a lot about you. I loved that Trotsky poem you wrote in college. Very righteous.”

“ _ Oh, no _ .” Vyv grinned. 

“I don’t understand!” Neil wailed, “I just don’t _ understand _ ! Rick’s dead! We buried him! I was there, wasn’t I? I gave the eulogy.”

“You did.” Fred agreed, “I didn’t like it very much.”

“I think you’ve got some explaining to do, poof.” Vyv replied, “I reckon we’d better get a round in.”

“Sounds like a plan, Vyv. Where should I start?”

“At the start, twat.” 

“Well,  _ yes _ . But which one. Yours, or mine?”

*

_ Several Months Later _

“Ready, Rick?” Gemini asked. She looked absolutely gorgeous in her church clothes - the flowy white dress and the flowers in her hair. Fred nodded, his face solemn, and tried not to think about how blimmin’ uncomfortable this new suit was. Gemini put her new baby in Fred’s arms with an encouraging smile and lead him to the front of the church, where Neil and the godmothers were waiting. The vicar, who looked surprisingly unphased by the bizarre christening she’d been asked to preside over, offered Fred a comforting smile that soothed his nerves somewhat. He looked down at the pink little bundle in his arms. 

Vivian Aquarius Wheedon Watkins Pye was only a few weeks old, and like most babies, she bore a strong resemblance to Winston Churchill. Fred acting as godfather hadn’t been up for debate - it seemed only fair, given all the other christenings he’d missed. 

“I think we’re ready now, Geraldine.” Gem said, and the vicar nodded.

“Right. Can I get the godparents to step forward, please?”

Fred, Meadow and Sandrine stepped forward. He stood in the middle with the godmothers on either side, each one with a hand on the snug bundle of blankets.

“Do you take responsibility for this child? Will you pray for them, draw them by your example into the community of faith and walk with them in the way of Christ? Will you care for them, and help them to take their place within the life and worship of Christ’s Church?”

“With the help of God we will.” They replied.

“...Would the Godfather kindly uncross his fingers?”

“With the help of God, I will not.” Rick replied, and a small murmur of laughter rang out across the church. In the front row, Mike and Vyv stood next to Neil’s parents, their three god children spread out between them. Young Rick and Rosie each sat on Mike’s lap, while Vyvyan bounced Clover on his knee. Neil’s parents looked the same as they had for every Pye christening thus far - politely proud, but deeply regretting having insisted upon a Judeo-Christian naming ritual to begin with. 

“Well, this is very nice.” Mike muttered, “But who gets left out of being godfather when the next kid comes along?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about it Michael. I’ll step aside for the next one. I think Rick’s earned a few.”

“It hardly seems very fair that you and Rick both get kids named after you. Where’s mine?”

“I’m sure they’ll name the next boy after you.” Vyv replied.

“What if it’s another girl?” Mike asked. The punk shrugged.

“...Michelle?”

*

On a very nice street towards the other end of London, a rough-looking punk and a very scruffy poet, both with shocks of bright orange hair, were walking down the footpath armed with groceries. Hamster food and cornflakes, some lentil pie from Neil’s health food shop for tea.

“Should’ve got a curry.” Vyv muttered.

“Absolutely not. I told you last time, young man. One more curry and you’ll be sleeping in the spare room!”

“Fascist.” Vyv replied, and slung his arm around Fred’s shoulders with a grin.

“Bastard. Complete and utter  _ bastard _ .”

“You love it.” 

“I do.” Fred agreed, “But that’s hardly the point.”

As they approached the front garden of their rather fancy looking terraced house, something brought them up short. It was the sound of a woman’s voice - American, familiar. Or at least, it was to one of them.

“Fred?!”

Fred turned on his heel on impulse, despite the fact that just about everyone he knew referred to him as Rick. And there she was, just as he remembered her. Just as she’d been when he left her, only a few years ago. Elizabeth Cronin in her very best dress, her hair slightly longer and her smile far brighter. She had good old Mickey Fartpants by her side and little Natalie balanced on her hip. And Fred could have  _ sworn _ he saw the beginnings of a baby bump under that ridiculous dress, but perhaps that was just his imagination.

“...Snotface?!”

“Drop Dead Fred!” Lizzie and Natalie both screamed in perfect unison, and immediately charged their former best friend. He held out his arms and embraced both of them, laughing in shock and surprise and  _ joy _ as Vyv and Mickey stood by in confusion, exchanging the standard glance of solidarity that comes when two people are equally clueless. 

“What are you doing here?” Fred grinned.

“What am  _ I _ doing here? What are  _ you _ doing here?!” Lizzie started to cry in spite of herself, sniffling against Fred’s blazer while Natalie gave an experimental tug on one of his braids. 

“I struck a bit of a deal with the Imaginary Friend department.” He replied, “What are you doing back there, Snotface? What are you pulling my hair for, hey? Shall I start yanking on your pigtails?”

“I’ve missed you.” Natalie giggled. By then it seemed that Mickey had regained  _ some _ of his ability to speak. He stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“You’re...you’re really him, aren’t you? You’re Fred?”

“The one and only!” Fred replied, “Oh, Mickey. Mickey, Mickey Fartpants. I’ve been dying to tell you this for years.”

“Tell me what?”

Fred leaned in conspiratorially, as if he was going to tell Mickey a secret, “...I always thought you were a right  _ girl _ .”

Vyv laughed, shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t have the foggiest idea what to do with himself - frankly, he was beginning to feel like a bit of a spare prick at a wedding. Who the bloody hell  _ were _ these people? Former charges, obviously, but that didn’t exactly answer much. Not for the first time Vyvyan realised that despite only being apart for six years, Rick had lived an entire life without him. Multiple, in fact. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to catch up on it all, but thank  _ Christ _ they had an entire eternity to try. Fred stepped back and shot his boyfriend an apologetic glance.

“Erm, Liz’beth, Nat, Mickey, this...this is my partner, Vyvyan.”

“Oh!” Lizzie’s eyes widened, “...Oh. Um...pleased to meet you!”

They shook hands, both looking a bit sheepish, but Fred seemed entirely oblivious to this awkward exchange as he lifted Natalie onto his shoulders.

“Vyv, this is Lizzie. I told you about her, didn’t I? My most difficult bloody charge till I got landed with  _ you _ . And this is Nat, the little terror, and Mickey Fartpants, the world’s girliest  _ girl _ .” He paused, “Liz’beth, if you tell me that you and Mickey Fartpants have been doing it like the pigeons, I shall have no choice but to be violently, copiously  _ sick _ .” 

“Guilty.” Lizzie grinned and put a hand on her stomach, “I’m only four months along. We’re going to have ourselves a genuine British baby.”

“You mean you  _ moved _ here?!” Fred asked. Mickey nodded.

“Next street over. You...live around here?”

“That’s our house there!” Fred pointed to the one about three doors down from where they were currently standing, “We’re practically neighbours!”

“I don’t believe this.” Lizzie leaned heavily against her best friend’s shoulder, still smiling from ear to ear. Her face was beginning to cramp with the effort, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. 

“Bloody mad, isn’t it?” Fred replied, “Listen Snotface - erm... _ Snotfaces _ \- there’s a pub about a street from here. Let’s all go have a drink. Catch up proper.”

“I think I could use one.” Mickey said. Vyv clapped him on the shoulder.

“You and me both, mate.”

*

“So...you  _ used _ to be alive?” Lizzie clarified. She was on her third orange juice, her second bag of crisps, but the information still didn’t seem to be going in. 

“Yeah,” Fred agreed, “I died when I was twenty-two. Before that, Vyv and I lived in a share house with a few mates. We went to college together.”

“I see. And then you...died. And...you started being an imaginary friend?”

“Yeah, but that’s a bit  _ too _ complicated.” Fred replied. 

“I don’t even really understand it.” Vyv said. He was sat at the far corner of the table with Natalie on his lap, and was showing her a far more child-friendly version of the old _“help, I’ve cut off my finger”_ trick, involving his thumb and a bit of well-placed sleight-of-hand. 

“Yeah, and I’ve explained it to him at least a hundred times.”

“I just...I just can’t believe it!” Mickey said, “I mean, this is just...this is just two weird! I always wondered of course, if there was...I don’t know.  _ Something _ to this whole imaginary friend thing, since Lizzie and Natalie both talked about you all the time, but...this is just… I don’t believe it!”

“Christ, he really is a  _ girl _ isn’t he?” Vyv said to no one in particular.

“The biggest.” Fred agreed.

“So what do you...what do you do now?” Lizzie asked, “What does life look like for Drop Dead Fred these days?”

“I’m a kindergarten teacher.” Fred replied, “It’s  _ great _ . I get to fingerpaint and eat play-dough all day every day.”

“I don’t know what else I expected.” Lizzie chuckled, “And you’re a...doctor, Vyvyan?”

“Pediatrician.” Vyv replied, “Just went back into private practice.”

“Oh, really? That’s crazy! We’ve been looking for a pediatrician for Natalie!” Mickey grinned, “Would you see her?”

“Yeah, I’ll take her on. She seems alright to me, though. Bit snotty, but otherwise-”

“ _ Hey _ !” Natalie giggled, “I’m not snotty!”

“You most certainly  _ are _ .” Fred told her, “You’re the snottiest kid I know. And I see snotty kids all the time! I eat snotty kids for  _ breakfast _ !”

“Eww.” Natalie giggled again and covered her face with her hands while Vyv fished around in his wallet for a card.

“Here you go. Reckon I’ve got some vacancies next week.”

“Oh, great. Thanks a bunch.” Mickey replied, and then laughed stupidly at his own joke. 

“...You didn’t take his name, did you?” Fred asked. 

“I did.” Lizzie smiled, “I would have invited you two to the wedding but, um...well.”

“Ah, well. No hard feelings, Snotface. I’ll come to your next one.”

The joke seemed to go right over Mickey’s head, but Lizzie laughed so hard she shot orange juice out of her nose. Her hand found Fred’s under the table and squeezed it, genuinely thrilled when he squeezed back just as tightly. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so happy. And more importantly, couldn’t remember the last time she saw Fred  _ look _ so happy. Being alive clearly suited him. But as she watched Vyvyan absentmindedly pluck a leaf out of Fred’s hair, saw the loving glances exchanged between the two of them, and took note of the way Fred’s eyes  _ lit up _ whenever he spoke about his partner, she wondered if this newfound happiness had more to do with simply returning to the land of the living…

“Hey, Fartpants. How  _ is _ your grandmother, anyway?”

This time, it was Mickey’s turn to spit his drink. 

*

“Have I told you how bloody lucky I am to have you?” Vyv asked as he dumped the groceries on the kitchen counter and sidestepped Petyr to get to the fridge. 

“Since this afternoon, you mean?” Fred replied. He started to unpack the hamster food and refill SPG’s food bowl, pausing briefly to pinch Vyvyan’s bottom as he walked past. This new house wasn’t quite as big as their old one, but was certainly a lot nicer. Cleaner. A bit more modern, even if the layout was mostly the same. The only noticeable change was the rapid reduction from four bedrooms to one, and the absence of a cellar and loft. That was fine - they didn’t need it. It was only the two of them, after all. SPG and Petyr hardly counted.

“Well, I am.” Vyv said, “And if there ever comes a time where I don’t tell you at least a hundred times a day, I want you to shoot me.”

“Right. I’ll write that down, shall I?”

“Stick it on the fridge.” Vyv said, “That Lizzie girl was nice. Don’t think much of that Mickey bloke, though.”

“No, neither do I. But he’s an improvement on her last bloke.”

“Natalie’s a cute little mite, though. His kid, I assume.”

“Yeah. This’ll be Lizzie’s first.  _ God _ . I can’t believe she’s having a baby, Vyv. I knew her when she was this small, you know. This small!” He put his hand about three feet above the ground for size reference, his face the picture of wonder and affection. Vyv’s heart melted a little at the sight of it.

“...What do you think about getting one of those?” He ventured. Fred quirked an eyebrow.

“What? A wife? No thank you, Vyvyan. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a bit of a poof.”

“I  _ know _ that.” Vyv rolled his eyes, “Everyone who’s ever bloody met you knows that! I meant...you know. A sprog.”

“...You want to have a baby?”

“Yeah, why not? You’re a kindergarten teacher, I’m a pediatrician. Frankly, poof, I think we’re overqualified.”

“A...a baby? You and me? Parents? Fathers? Raising a child of our very own, together? Here?”

“Oh, look. It was only an idea. If you don’t want to -”

“Don’t you dare take it back!” Fred sprung across the room and into Vyvyan’s arms, wrapping his legs around the punk’s waist as he covered his face in kisses. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my whole entire blimmin’ life, Vyvyan!”

“Jesus Christ, calm down! Do you have any idea how fucking heavy that big bottom of yours is?!”

Vyv laughed as he leaned against the kitchen counter to try and better support their weight. Eventually he gave up, and simply slid down onto the floor where there was less risk of injury. He returned Fred’s kisses eagerly, ran his fingers through his partner’s hair and over the stubble on his cheeks.

“I bloody love you, you know.” He whispered, “More than anything.”

“I love you too.” Fred replied, “More than anything...for now.”

“For now? What the bloody hell’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Well, we haven’t got the baby yet, have we?”

“Oh, that’s charming, that is. I’m sorry I said anything!”

“No take-backs.” Fred replied, “And I checked - your fingers weren’t crossed. Start thinking of names, Dad. We’re going to get this whole adoption process started as soon as possible!”

“Oh, can’t we try the old fashioned way for a bit first?” Vyv whined.

“...I don’t think it  _ works _ like that, Vyv.” Fred grinned while Vyv thumbed at the zipper on his jeans “...And there’s absolutely  _ nothing _ old fashioned about that!”

*

Felicity Gemini Kate Bush Basterd-Pratt came home on a Tuesday, and so they had sausages for tea. 

They brought her in in the afternoon, laden with various last minute bits and bobs deemed absolutely necessary for the raising of a child. Strollers, blankets, booties and hats, and nappies - god, the nappies. So many blimmin’ nappies. 

“I didn’t expect her to sleep all the way home.” Fred said as he held the door open for Vyvyan, who had Felicity bundled up in his arms rather than the fancy baby carrier they’d forked out so much money for. “That was a nice surprise.”

“I expected her to look uglier.” Vyv replied, “A bit more like a potato.”

“Well, she does look a  _ bit _ like a potato. Just...a cute potato.” 

“I spose. You know, I don’t think that social worker bought our story about being two perfectly straight friends looking to give a child a home.”

“I don’t know that she particularly cared, Vyvyan. I think she was just relieved someone was willing to take the little blighter on.”

Vyv stepped into the drawing-room and moved around Petyr to sit down on the sofa, with Fred trailing close behind. 

“I don’t know that I would’ve called her a  _ difficult _ baby.” Rick continued, “They said she cries a lot, but I don’t think she’s cried once since we picked her up.”

“Ah, give her time, Rick. She’s probably just overwhelmed. She’ll be screaming her lungs outcome midnight, you’ll see.”

Fred shrugged and sat down on one end of the sofa, so that Vyvyan could lie down on the other end and rest his head on Fred’s lap. He kept Felicity close to his chest, marveling at her tiny hands and the little sniffling sounds she made. 

“Did ye get her then?” SPG asked as he emerged from under the coffee table. Fred nodded, picked up the hamster and rested him on his shoulder. 

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Fred asked. SPG shrugged.

“She’s alright.”

“Well, I think she looks blimmin’ beautiful.” Fred replied, “Very intelligent. She’s got wise eyes, don’t you think Vyvyan? Hey, what do you think she’ll look like when she’s older? I think she’s going to be absolutely beautiful. Probably even prettier than Felicity Kendal, or even Kate Bush.”

“I hope not.” Vyv yawned, “I’d rather have an ugly one. Otherwise we’ll be spending all our lives chasing boys off with machetes, and my hair’ll be grey before I’m forty.”

“Don’t be so close-minded, Vyvyan! She could be a lesbian!”

“Could she? Well, I spose I’d prefer that. Girls are easier to chase off with a machete.” He paused, “She doesn’t  _ look _ like a lesbian.”

“You can’t possibly  _ look _ like a lesbian, Vyvyan. Anyone can be one!”

“Not if they’re a man.”

“Well, we won’t know until she tells us.” Rick said with a degree of finality, as if he was the undisputed expert on the matter of lesbian babies. He reached for one of Felicity’s hands and damn near  _ sobbed _ when her tiny fingers curled around his thumb. Vyvyan wasn’t far behind.

“...Shall we ask her then?” The punk ventured, in a desperate attempt to combat the sudden levels of sappiness in the room, “Fliss, who would you rather shag? A real ripper of a bird who looks just like Kate Bush, or -”

“Don’t be disgusting!” Rick tried to sound like he disapproved, but was having a hard time hiding his laughter. “Can I hold her for a bit, Vyv?”

“Yeah, go on.” He passed her over as gently as possible, forever terrified she might break despite the years of medical training telling him otherwise. “Still can’t believe we ended up with a girl. Us! As if we know  _ anything _ about girls.”

“I know.” Fred sighed, “But I’m sure it won’t be too difficult. Well, not until she becomes a teenager, anyway. I mean, who's going to tell her about  _ pewiods _ and  _ bweasts _ and such?” 

His Rick-lisp didn’t resurface often these days, but when things got into uncomfortable territory, it came back almost instantly - as though it never left. 

“I dunno. You’re the teacher.”

“You’re the blimmin doctor!” Rick laughed, “You tell her!”

“Well, something tells me she’ll find out about the breasts on her own. Just do your poofy little  _ “everybody has them” _ speech and we’ll be fine. As for the  _ pewiods _ , that’s no bother. We’ll just rent Carrie on video. That’ll sort her out.”

“I suppose.” Fred shrugged, “Any thoughts about godparents?”

“Oh, Christ. Do we have to do that?”

“Well, it seems only fair! Neil did it for all of his children.”

“We’re not even Christian!” 

“That’s not the point, Vyvyan! Look, I was thinking Lizzie and Gemini for godmothers, and Neil for a godfather. That makes things nice and fair, doesn’t it?”

“I spose. I dunno  _ why _ Lizzie wanted me to be Fred’s godfather anyway. I barely bloody know her! And I’m not delivering the next one, poof. I bloody mean it!”

“Alright.” Fred replied, but he was only half-listening. He was too busy looking at Fliss’s little face. Her tiny button nose and her little fingers and toes. The little sprouts of strawberry blonde hair on top of her head and the startlingly vibrant colour in her big blue eyes. He loved her. Cliff. More than anything, everything. He loved her and Vyv and SPG, and even P. He loved the little family they’d created, the lovely little life they’d carved out for themselves. He loved babysitting his godchildren on the weekends and having dinner with Lizzie and Mickey every few weeks. He loved his job - he loved reading to the kids at work in the afternoons, making them laugh and wiping away their tears when they cried. He loved being Rick. Being Fred. Being Frederick Flashheart Basterd-Pratt. And most of all, even though he’d only done it for about half a day, he loved being a Dad. 

“Are you happy, Vyv?” Fred asked suddenly. It wasn’t an uncommon question - it passed between them fairly regularly as of late. A verbal expression of the blind joy and disbelief they both still felt at the idea of being together again. Of being  _ allowed _ to be together again. 

“Bloody ecstatic.” Vyv’s voice was heavy with sleep, exhausted from all the excitement of the day, “You?”

“Never better.”

“Give us the baby back.” Vyv yawned again, “I miss her.”

“You’ve had her all day! And you can’t blimmin’ well miss her, she’s right here!”

“I wanna hold her.”

“Tough. It’s my turn.” He snuggled her close to his chest and kissed the top of her head. Suddenly, he felt about as tired as Vyvyan looked. “...Vyv?”

“Hmm?”

“What if Fliss had an imaginary friend of her own someday? That’d be a bit weird, wouldn’t it? Bit uncanny.”

“I don’t think we need to worry about that, poof.” Vyv replied, “She’s already got us. Got you. Drop Dead Fred - the best bloody imaginary friend that world’s ever seen.”

“And his brilliant new apprentice...Oblivion Vyvyan.”

“No.”

“...Super Snotty Vyvyan? Starface Vyvyan? Tri-hawk head?”

“Rick?”

“Yes, Very Vulgar Vyv?”

“That one’s fine. Now shut up and go to sleep.” 

Fred sighed, held Felicity closer to his chest, and with a bit of strategic acrobatics he was able to wriggle his way down the sofa so that he and Vyvyan were side by side with Fliss in between. It was a bit cramped, but neither of them would have traded it for anything. Vyv wrapped an arm around Fred’s waist, snuck one last loving glance at their daughter, and promptly drifted off to sleep. Fred stayed awake a little bit longer, playing with Fliss’s fingers and running his hand across Vyv’s arm, thinking about how incredibly, blindingly, brilliantly lucky he was for perhaps the hundredth time.

He looked up at the ceiling, towards the sky, where he imagined the DIF was located.

“...Thank you.” He whispered. 

“You’re very welcome, Fred.” Came the reply - a soft, unobtrusive voice that held so much resemblance to Twee and Twid. Fred told himself he must have imagined it, that it was simply his mind playing tricks on him. But from then on, every so often….he wondered. Sometimes he’d even try again, look up to the sky, wait for a response, be greeted with only silence. But part of him knew it wasn’t a trick. That they were watching. That they were proud. That his reward was well deserved, and well earned. 

*

_ Rick’s poem to Vyv - 1986 _

_ Roses are red, _

_ Violets are really more purple than blue _

_ I’m in love with a psychopath _

_ (Darling, that’s you.) _

_ Orchids are white _

_ Blue ones are rare _

_ Orange peels are orange, _

_ And so is your hair. _

_ Daisies are pretty, _

_ And Neil has no style,  _

_ Our room is dark,  _

_ So is your smile _

_ Now it’s getting late, _

_ And we’ve just gone to bed, _

_ At one time you told me, _

_ You wanted me dead _

_ Carnations are for funerals, _

_ Not roses (too red) _

_ And instead of my wake _

_ You’ve gone to sleep in my bed _

_ So you’re passed out drunk _

_ And nothing rhymes with oblivion _

_ Well, one thing does. _

_ You punk. _

_ My Vyvyan.  _

*

_ Vyvyan’s Poem to Rick - 1993 _

_ I wandered lonely as a knob _

_ Until I found another knob _

_ And that knob was considerably smaller than my knob _

_ But that was alright because he could do really disgusting things with his mouth _

_ To my knob _

_ Knobs.  _

*

Special Thanks and acknowledgments

  * Serenpop / pol-doodles (tumblr) for their amazing fanart and general love and support.
  * Scumbaganarchy & starryeyedrichie (Ao3) for being my two most trusted fanfiction sounding boards, and for berating me constantly for being so cruel to Fred/Rick & Vyvyan. This happy ending was for you, you bastards.
  * Annia316 (Ao3) for commenting on every single chapter, giving so much amazing support and being generally so lovely
  * Frankenbolt (Ao3 & tumblr) for being my fanfiction idol and letting me pinch Tulpatripidenze. You’re a queen and I love you
  * The Scumbag fandom for letting me in - I love you all 



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You...you didn't really think I was going to give you a sad ending, did you? God, you lot really are gullible. But I'm so grateful to all of you, and I love you all so much, and I'm literally so grateful to everyone who took the time to comment kudos, read and generally give a shit about this silly little fic. Thank you <3


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